"And now," he said, at the close, "we have decided to start this movement today at home. We will be pleased to make an example we hope the other churches will follow." With that, he read the names of the donors and subscribers. Among them, one hundred fifty dollars by Mildred Latham, the organist, led in cash. They were surprised. Very few had even become acquainted with her. Now all desired to. When the meeting had closed, many gathered about her and were introduced. Then, as she was turning to go, the person she had observed when she finished playing, approached. His hand was extended, while his eyes looked into hers with something that frightened her when she saw him—and recognized him as the man she had seen back in Cincinnati, and who now recognized her.
When she went home that day, she had reached a decision.
CHAPTER TWELVE
And Then She Began to Grow Otherwise
The week following Miss Palmer's and Sidney's outing, was a week of conflictions for her. She was torn by them considerably. She hardly knew how to feel; whether to be happy or angry with herself for having acted as she did. He was kind to her, he was considerate; but that was all. She had exercised all her wits to make him see her seriously, but beyond that incident, he had given her no encouragement whatever. She felt guilty at her conduct. She accused herself of having acted unbecoming in her attitude toward him. Although he would not admit having written the book, which had aroused her curiosity, she, of course, knew that he had. She had finished it now, and knew all he had suffered. And, as she thought it over, time and again, she almost concluded that his life, as he had suffered, made him hard and unsympathetic. And almost in the same thought, she rebuked herself for feeling that way; because, above all else, he was certainly not selfish.
He called almost every evening when he had finished his work, and they sat on the porch in the swing if there was no one, and when there happened to be, they sat in the parlor on the davenport. And when they did so, it so happened they began to flirt. And this continued to develop until it reached a point she declared to be outrageous. And yet it persisted. At such times, moreover, she became bold. There came a time when she was almost disgusted with herself for being so weak.
After a few weeks had passed, she came to realize that her quest was in vain. Sidney Wyeth had no affection, beyond flirting, with her. And then she began to grow otherwise. He observed the change, and was sorry, perhaps. Still, Miss Palmer did not give up entirely. She was not that kind of person. After all, to kiss him and to be kissed in return, was some pastime. It was better than not being kissed or loved at all. So she flirted.
After this became the usual thing in their acquaintance, she began to assert other dispositions that had not before been evident. She inquired boldly where he went when he didn't call in the evening, as usual. She dictated where he should go as well. In desperation she continued her tactics—even to a point where our pen is constrained to relate.
"Do you know," said she one evening, when they had flirted shamefully. "I'm beginning to care for you." She said this from his knee.