His voice betrayed him, and looking up, she asked quietly, "How is Judy,
Abel?"
"She's not well. It seems she suffers with her nerves."
"I'm coming to see her. Judy and I were always friends, you know."
"Yes, I know. You were a friend to every woman."
"And I am still. I've grown to love Aunt Kesiah, and I believe I'm the
only person who sees just how fine she is."
"Your grandfather saw, I think. Do you remember he used to say life was
always ready to teach us things, but that some of us were so mortal slow
we never learned till we died?"
Her eyes were starry as she looked away from him over the meadow. "Abel,
I miss him so," she said after a minute.
"I know, Molly, I know."
"Nothing makes up for him. All the rest seems so distant and unhuman.
Nothing is so real to me as the memory of him sitting in his chair on
the porch with Spot at his feet."
For a minute he did not reply, and when he spoke at last, it was only to
say:
"I wonder if a single human being could ever understand you, Molly?"
"I don't understand myself. I don't even try."
"You've had everything you could want for a year--been everywhere--seen
everything--yet, I believe, you'd give it all up to be back in the
cottage over there with Reuben and his hound?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she answered passionately, "that was what I loved.
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