“Of course there is no great rush, dearie. But Dick Moore’s been dead for thirteen years and Leslie has wasted enough of her life for him. We’ll just see what comes of it. As for this George Moore, who’s gone and come back to life when everyone thought he was dead and done for, just like a man, I’m real sorry for him. He won’t seem to fit in anywhere.”
“He is still a young man, and if he recovers completely, as seems likely, he will be able to make a place for himself again. It must be very strange for him, poor fellow. I suppose all these years since his accident will not exist for him.”
CHAPTER 33
LESLIE RETURNS
A fortnight later Leslie Moore came home alone to the old house where she had spent so many bitter years. In the June twilight she went over the fields to Anne’s, and appeared with ghost-like suddenness in the scented garden.
“Leslie!” cried Anne in amazement. “Where have you sprung from? We never knew you were coming. Why didn’t you write? We would have met you.”
“I couldn’t write somehow, Anne. It seemed so futile to try to say anything with pen and ink. And I wanted to get back quietly and unobserved.”
Anne put her arms about Leslie and kissed her. Leslie returned the kiss warmly. She looked pale and tired, and she gave a little sigh as she dropped down on the grasses beside a great bed of daffodils that were gleaming through the pale, silvery twilight like golden stars.
“And you have come home alone, Leslie?”