It was a lonely way. There was a brook on one
side, bordered thickly with bushy willows which were turning
gold-green. On the other side were undulating pasture-lands on
which grazed a few sheep. There were no houses until she reached
the turn which would lead back to the main street, on which her
home was located.
Eudora was about midway of this street when she saw a man
approaching. He was a large man clad in gray, and he was
swinging an umbrella. Somehow the swing of that umbrella, even
from a distance, gave an impression of embarrassment and boyish
hesitation. Eudora did not know him at first. She had expected
to see the same Harry Lawton who had gone away. She did not
expect to see a stout, middle-aged man, but a slim youth.
However, as they drew nearer each other, she knew; and curiously
enough it was that swing of the tightly furled umbrella which
gave her the clue. She knew Harry because of that. It was a
little boyish trick which had survived time. It was too late for
her to draw back, for he had seen her, and Eudora was keenly
alive to the indignity of abruptly turning and scuttling away
with the tail of her black silk swishing, her India shawl
trailing, and the baby-carriage bumping over the furrows.
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