"Do you know what you are eminently fitted for?" cried Sue, energetically.
"Sue!" cried Thirza, warningly.
"I don't care," Sue continued, daringly; "you are so set on going back to America that I half suspect——"
"Don't, Sue, please!" interrupted Thirza, with such evident signs of genuine displeasure, that Sue, who stood somewhat in awe of her cousin, ceased to banter, mentally vowing that she was "the queerest girl she had ever met with."
Thirza arose and went out into the flower-adorned balcony. She sought distraction, but somehow the surging, chattering crowd in the street below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off strains of music, did not bring her what she sought.
"If only Sue wouldn't!" she reflected, and then, between her and the sea of heads, and the lights and the flowers rose a face—the face that had troubled her meditations on Jones' Hill, that had followed her in all her wanderings, the noble face, with its blue eyes bent upon her so earnestly, so eloquently. Had she read aright, even if too late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers at parting? The same sweet, sharp pain that was not all pain, shot through her heart, and a consciousness of something blindly missed, something perversely thrown away, came over her. Sighing, she arose, and in response to Sue's call, went in and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her present mood, she felt neither pleasure nor interest. "If people here knew what a pitiful fraud I am—what a despicable part I am acting!" she said to herself, as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered the brilliant salon.
It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was sailing homeward as fast as wind and wave and steam could carry her. The year that had passed had brought little outward change in the girl. She looked fairer and fresher, perhaps, and certain little rusticities of dress and speech and manner had disappeared—worn off, as had the marks of toil from the palms of her slender hands. But to all intents and purposes, the tall figure in its close-fitting brown suit, which during the homeward voyage sat for the most part in the vessel's stern, gazing back over the foaming path, was the same which had watched a year before with equal steadiness from the steamer's bow. The very same, and yet—the girl often wondered if she were indeed the same, and lost herself in speculations as to how the old life at Millburn would seem to her now. She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of her existence there, and tried to look her future undauntedly in the face. But all her philosophy failed her when in imagination she found herself upon the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, she faltered weakly, and turned back.
When at last, one evening in June, she stepped out of the train at the little station of Millburn, a crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing upon her, as if they had been lying in wait there to welcome her. She had informed no one of her coming, and it was not strange that no friendly face greeted her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone through the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint within her. How poor and meagre everything seemed! The unpaved streets, the plank sidewalks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the river, the great mills, looming grim and shapeless through the dusk! The long, glorious holiday was over—there lay her future.
Weary and sick at heart she entered her boarding-house. The old familiar aroma saluted her, the hard-featured landlady welcomed her with a feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy demonstrations.
Her room was at her disposal, and under the plea of fatigue she kept out of sight the whole of the succeeding day, which happened to be Sunday. She lay the greater part of the day upon the old lounge, looking round upon the well-known furnishings with a weary gaze. How small and shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, how mean and prosaic everything, and the very canaries in their cage had forgotten her, and screamed shrilly at her approach!