“Don’t you have any school to–day?”
“School is just out, but my sister hasn’t gone.”
“I wonder if she is the one that Woodbury said gave him his supper and hot coffee,” thought Walter. “She knew how to cure a man in trouble.”
“Good afternoon,” said a pleasant voice in the entry. Walter looked up, and there before him, advancing also toward him with a hand outstretched in welcome, was May Elliott. The old schoolhouse in the fishing village seemed to disappear at once, as by the touch of a magician’s wand. In its place, was the academy. Again, it was “composition day,” and in May Elliott’s hand was a schoolgirl’s composition, from which she was reading these words: “The life that does not take into account the need of those about us, that does not take into account another life, that does not take God into account, is making a serious mistake.”
All this came to Walter, and he stood in a daze.
“Don’t you know me, Plympton? May Elliott?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, quickly recovering from his surprise. “But I was not looking for you, and—”
“It gave you a surprise? Won’t you come in?”
“I am glad to see you, Miss Elliott. Why, I didn’t know you were here!”
He followed her into the low–storied schoolroom, and sat down in a chair that she placed for him near the door.