“You are sure he loved me so?” The girl’s mouth tremored at the corners. “He did not tell me often enough.”
“He loved you dearly,” said Anne.
“Ah, if you knew what sweet comfort you give! You are sure?—quite sure?”
“He loved you with all his heart,” repeated Anne.
“I will go, Anne. I thank you so much! I think I can weep again, now. For a while, goodbye. Give me both your hands, and kiss me.”
THE DEAD OAK
By Anna Vernon Dorsey
THE November day was drawing to a close. The shadows were deepening in the pine forest that lay on one side of the sandy road. On the other side, the corn-stalks stood in level rows against the yellow of the sunset. My horse limped painfully, for he had cast a shoe several hours since, and my hurried ride through a thinly inhabited part of lower Maryland, with which I was unfamiliar, had so far brought me near no blacksmith’s shop. Great, then, was my relief, on passing the wood, to find a three-cross-roads, and a small house with a shed from which rang the measured stroke of the anvil, while the square of the door was ruddy with the forge fire.