I hoped to be able to complete her course before Christmas came round. Then it would be merely a question of selection of reading matter.
Rita's manner of speaking had undergone a wonderful change. There were no slangy expressions now; no "ain'ts" or "I guess"; no plural nouns with singular verbs; no past participles for the past tense; no split infinitives. To all intents and purposes, Rita Clark had taken a course of instruction at a good grammar school.
And what a difference it made in her, generally! Even her dress and her deportment seemed to have changed with her new manner of speaking.
It is always so. The forward progress in any one direction means forward progress in almost every other.
Rita was a sweet, though still impetuous, little maiden that any cultured man might have been proud to have for a wife.
One rainy night, she and I were sitting by the stove in my front room. I was in an easy chair, with a book in my hand, while Rita was sitting in front of me on a small, carpet-covered stool, leaning sideways against my legs and supposedly doing some paraphrasing. A movement on her part caused me to glance at her.
She had turned and was staring toward the window and her eyes were growing larger and larger every moment. Her face grew pale, while her lips parted and an expression, akin to fear, began to creep into her eyes.
I turned my head hurriedly to the window, but all was dark over there and the rain was pattering and splashing against the glass.
Still, Rita sat staring, although the look of fear had gone.
I laid my hand on her shoulder.