“No,” she said, softly; “the lady lives on the next landing, but I saw her going out.”
Abraham was well aware how closely she had been watching that doorway! “Are there any vacancies?”
The girl dropped her head as if in doubt about carrying on the conversation further, then replied: “I think there are.” “said the Indian.
Whether it was loneliness or desperation at the non-arrival of the person to whom she had sent the letter, or the tall redman’s superlative good looks and genteel demeanor–for a handsome man can attempt what a plain one dare never aspire–at any rate without another word, she turned and led the way up the long, steep stairs.
It was with no sense of surprise that she brought him to the top of the house, into her own garret, with its two small dormer windows which gave a view in the direction of the Narrows at Fort Hunter, and the broad, majestic river. There was a narrow bed with a soiled coverlet, a portmanteau, a brass candlestick, and two rush-bottomed chairs, and nothing else in it. In those days lodgers washed at the well in the back yard.
Both sat down as if they had known each other all their lives; the frigid barrier of reserve of a few minutes earlier had broken down. They were scarcely seated when the ominous “Clank, clank, clank,” that the girl had been listening for so intently all afternoon, resounded up the dismal vault of the stairway.
Casting a frightened look at the big Indian, as much as to say, “What will he say if he finds you here?” she bounded out of the room, descending the steps two or three at a time.
Abram Antoine did not take the hint to retire, if such was meant, and sat stolidly in the high-backed, rush-bottomed chair, in the unlighted room. It was only a few minutes until she returned, her face red, all out of breath, carrying the same letter which he had seen her hand to the colored boy earlier in the afternoon.
OLD SCHELLSBURG CHURCH, LINCOLN HIGHWAY