Peterkin was taking a nap in one corner of the big sofa in the hall. It was a delightful spring afternoon and everybody was out; he knew this, for he had seen them go. First Miss Moore hurried away with some books under her arm; next Frances danced downstairs, followed by her father and mother; a little later Emma and the General started out for a walk; and last of all came Miss Sherwin, and sat beside him while she put on her gloves.
She stroked him gently for a minute before she left, and, bending over him till her face touched his soft fur, said, "Oh, pussy, pussy! so many things are happening, and it's going to be so lonely. It must be nice to be a cat."
Peterkin rubbed his head sympathetically against her hand, for her tone was sad. He had had confidences made to him before and knew how to receive them. He understood it all as well as if she had spent hours in the telling, an advantage a cat possesses over a human confidant.
He had been dozing undisturbed for a long time when he heard the door open again, and a man's voice he did not recognize say: "How fortunate that I met you! I seem to have had the wrong number."
It was Miss Sherwin who replied, "I am very much surprised; I did not know you were in this part of the country."
Then they came and sat on the sofa, and the stranger, who, Peterkin saw, was a pleasant looking young fellow, said he had been back only a short time. "I stopped in Maryville a day, and then at home for two more," he added.
"You have been to Maryville?" Miss Sherwin's voice showed surprise. Then she began to ask questions about the people there, and to talk of the delightful weather, in all of which her companion seemed to feel little interest. Presently there came a silence.
The young man leaned forward, one elbow on his crossed knee that he might the better look into Miss Sherwin's face, the light in the hall being a little dim. "Lillian," he began, "in this past year I have had a good deal of time for thinking, and naturally our—disagreement has been often in my mind. When I last saw you I thought it was all over forever, and though I had come to look at it differently in these months—feeling that perhaps there had been a mistake—still I don't know that I ever—that is— I mean the possibility of undoing it never occurred to me till I was on my way home. I hope you don't mind listening to this; I'll try to be brief.
"Perhaps you know I got my position in March,—the one I had been hoping and working for,—and with it the opportunity to come East for a month or two. I can't say I wanted very much to come. The thought of our old plans made it rather bitter, but I owed it to the people at home.
"Not to make the story too long, I picked up on the train a magazine belonging to one of my fellow travellers, and read a little story. It was called 'The Missing Bridge,' and was a sort of fairy story. It seems rather absurd, but there was something in it that impressed me strangely. It was the thought that even when people seem hopelessly separated from each other, if they are brave enough and true enough to try, they will find a way across all barriers.