It was just the life to drive a pretty, spirited girl frantic with impatience of the present, and longings for something better than she had known—the longing that found impatient expression that afternoon when she watched the dead leaves flying in sodden drifts beneath the chill November rain.
After Mrs. Flint’s curt rejoinder to her complaints she remained silent several minutes drumming impatiently on the pane, then burst out:
“Oh, Aunt Beck, don’t you want me to run down to the post-office for your Christian Advocate?”
“In all this storm?”
“Oh, I won’t mind it a bit! I’m in a mood for fighting the elements!”
“Then take your umbrella and overshoes, and hurry back.”
“Yes, aunt.”
Glad to escape from the monotony of the little brown house, she hurried out into the teeth of the storm, and made her way through the village streets to the little post-office. The rain blew in her face, and the wind crimsoned her cheeks and made her dark eyes flash like stars. Cinthia did not care. In her splendor of youth and health she found it exhilarating.
But going back, the storm, that had been gathering its forces for a fiercer onslaught, increased in angry violence.
She had left the paved main street, too, now, and was emerging into the thinly populated suburbs where her home was situated.