"What shall I do if he comes—what shall I do?"
Already she seemed to hear footsteps outside, her heart beat so violently, she pressed her hand to her breast. And it was a relief when no one came after all, and she hoped and hoped he would not come at all, to spoil the pretty fairy story.
"But then—if he should not come? If he had been only jesting, after all." That was worse still. "If he would only come—but only to the window—look in at the flowers, but not to knock three times, no…."
She went back to the beginning again—a girl stood in the front room, pouring warm milk through a big strainer….
A knocking at the window—three soft, short taps.
The girl sat up with a start, holding her breath. She raised her head, and looked anxiously toward the window. The fuchsia and the balsamine gazed at her from the sill with questioning eyes: "What is this you are doing, Pansy?"
And behind the flowers was a dark shadow, against the blind. She felt that he was looking straight through at her: "I am here, Pansy."
The shadow seemed calling her to account for something she had promised. She hid her face in the pillow, and pulled the quilt over her head. Her heart throbbed till the bed itself seemed to shake.
"And he will not beg and pray and ask, as the others do."
Slowly the girl drew herself up and remained sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap.