Flower of the Dusk | Page 8

knew this place before he was
blind, and I don't think there is any danger."
"Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I told
him this morning. 'A blind old man like you,' says I, 'ain't got no
business chasin' around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall down
and break a leg or arm or something.'"
Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "Mother!" he cried. "How can
you say such things!"
"Why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "He knows he's blind, I guess,
and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to
speak of it? Anyway," she added, piously, "I always say just what I

think."
Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth
restlessly. "People who always say what they think, Mother," he
answered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of great
importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unless
directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest
to ourselves."
"I was kind," objected Miss Mattie. "I was tellin' him he ought not to
take the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. I don't know
what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa."
[Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks]
"How long had you and father known each other before you were
married?" asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous
rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations.
"'Bout three months. Why?"
"Oh, I just wanted to know."
"I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now."
Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far
into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to
the grey old world some of its own immortal joy.
"I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely.
"Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir
and I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I
can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows
was open in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was
prayin' and lighted on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't
was yesterday.
[Sidenote: Great Notions]

"Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we
was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did."

III
The Tower of Cologne
Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she
sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father
came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm
not very orderly."
"It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I
steal too much time from my work as it is."
Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come
over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in
the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your
father wants you and my mother wants me."
"I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your
mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time.
I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over
then?"
[Sidenote: A Happy Thought]
"Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want
me. How shall I know?"
"I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you
can come, all right. If not, I'll understand."
Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to
find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had
so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the
young of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and

had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban.
Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age,
begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third
person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear
hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to
Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never
occurred to either of them.
[Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship]
Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth by
Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-wide
fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and
constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and
ugliness of her surroundings