So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss Bullin's spare bedroom, and went to work in the dingy back shop, rounding out her life with such pleasure as could be found in a walk about the burying-ground on Sundays, in the circulating library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting, where her mellow voice revelled in the sweet melodies of the hymns, whose promises brought such comfort to her lonely young heart.
From the window where she sat when at work she could look out over fields and orchards, and follow the winding of the river in and out the willow-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a small island separated it into two deep channels, which met at the lower point with a glad rush and tumult, to flow on again united in a deeper, smoother current than before.
Along the river bank, the road ran to the covered bridge, and across it into the woods beyond. And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she saw Miss Fairfield's pony phaeton rolling leisurely along under the overhanging willows, so near that the voices of the occupants, for Miss Fairfield was never alone, now, came up to her with the cool river-breeze and the scent of the pines on the island. Once, Roger Horton happened to look up, and recognized her with one of those grave smiles which always brought back her childhood and the barren pasture where the tiger-lilies grew; and she drew back into the shadow of the curtain again.
Doctor Horton saw Lilly O'Connell often; he met her flitting through the twilight with bulky parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and children, and even at the various festivals which enlivened the tedium of the summer (where, indeed, her place was among the workers only), and he would have been glad to speak to her a friendly word now and then, but she gave him little chance. There was a look in her face which haunted him, and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and mournful above the others at church or conference-meeting, thrilled him to the heart with its pathos. Once, as he drove along the river-side after dark, the voice came floating out from the unlighted window of the shop where he so often saw her at work, and it seemed to him like the note of the wood-thrush, singing in the solitude of some deep forest.
Before the summer was over, something occurred to heighten the interest which the sight of this solitary maiden figure, moving so unheeded across the dull background of village life, had inspired.
It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield's grounds, for the benefit of the church of which she was a prominent member. There was the usual display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated booths, and pretty girls in white. A good many people were present, and the Ridgemont brass band was discoursing familiar strains. Doctor Horton, dropping in, in the course of the evening, gravitated naturally toward an imposing structure, denominated on the bills the "Temple of Flora," where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were disposing of iced lemonade and button-hole bouquets in the cause of religion. The place before the booth was occupied by a group of young men, who were flinging away small coin with that reckless disregard of consequences peculiar to very youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned with boutonnières at every possible point, and were laughing in a manner so exuberant as might, under other circumstances, have led to the suspicion that the beverage sold as lemonade contained something of a more intoxicating nature.
Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, one bare white arm extended across the green garlands which covered the frame-work. She looked bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the shoulder of the delighted youth vis-à-vis.
Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen making his way toward the place.
"We were laughing," said the young man who had been talking with her, after greetings had been exchanged,—"we were laughing over the latest news. Heard it, Doctor?"
Dr. Horton signified his ignorance.