As
he reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar.
Three squares away was his sister's house, and in it was the girl
with the fresh, clear voice. He took the note she had sent him out
of his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked again
at the firm, clear writing, then put it back. Did she, too, wonder
at life, at its emptiness and aimlessness? Her voice did not sound
as if she were tired of it or found it wearisome. It sounded like a
very happy voice.
At his door he turned the latch-key, and for a moment--a bare
moment--drew back; then, with a shiver, he opened the door and went
inside.
Moses was waiting. "Miss Dorothea she called me up, sir, and told me
to be sure and give you this letter to-night. She slip out of bed to
telephone when that French white lady was out the room, she say. She
had her Ma send it by messenger, and she was so 'fraid you wouldn't
get it to-night she couldn't sleep. She sent a peck of love."
Laine took the letter and went to his room. Dorothea was given to
letters, and if his absence was unduly long a communication to that
effect was promptly received. He had seen her last night, however.
What was she wanting now? Breaking the seal, he read the sprawly
writing with narrowed eyes, then read again, that he might miss no
word.
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