We Two | Page 4

paper; sometimes her eager face would
look absolutely bewitching in its brightness; sometimes scarcely less
bewitching in a consuming anxiety which seemed unnatural in one so
young.
One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way
down Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the
driving rain which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's
shrill voice was still far in the distance, the man of letters was still at
work upon knockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl
to make her appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when
suddenly his umbrella was nearly knocked out of his hand by coming
violently into collision with another umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden
stand, he looked to see who it was who had charged him with such
violence, and found himself face to face with his unknown friend. He
had never been quite so close to her before. Her quaint face had always
fascinated him, but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he
had ever seen--it took his heart by storm.
It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung
over the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than
a boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and piquant; the
usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to carnation, perhaps
because of the slight contretemps, perhaps because of some deeper
emotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown eyes that
were lifted to his seemed bright either with indignation or with unshed
tears. Today it was clear that the mood was not a happy one.
"I am very sorry," she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a low,
musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a child. "I

really wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless of me."
Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apologized profusely;
but though he would have given much to detain her, if only a moment,
she gave him no opportunity, but with a slight inclination passed
rapidly on. He stood quite still, watching her till she was out of sight,
aware of a sudden change in his life. He was a busy hard-working man,
not at all given to dreams, and it was no dream that he was in now. He
knew perfectly well that he had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she
to him; that somehow in a single moment a new world had opened out
to him. He had fallen in love.
The trifling occurrence had made no great impression on the "little girl"
herself. She was rather vexed with herself for the carelessness, but a
much deeper trouble was filling her heart. She soon forgot the passing
interruption and the brown-bearded man with the pleasant gray eyes
who had apologized for what was quite her fault. Something had gone
wrong that day, as Brian had surmised; the eyes grew brighter, the
carnation flush deepened as she hurried along, the delicate lips closed
with a curiously hard expression, the hands were clasped with
unnecessary tightness round the umbrella.
She passed up Guilford Square, but did not turn into any of the old
decayed houses; her home was far less imposing. At the corner of the
square there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of blind alley
paved with grim flagstones. Here, facing a high blank wall, are four or
five very dreary houses. She entered one of these, put down her wet
umbrella in the shabby little hall, and opened the door of a barely
furnished room, the walls of which were, however, lined with books.
Beside the fire was the one really comfortable piece of furniture in the
room, an Ikeley couch, and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who
glanced up with a smile of welcome. "Why, Erica, you are home early
today. How is that?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Erica, tossing down her books in a way which
showed her mother that she was troubled about something. "I suppose I
tore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to stay at the
High School."
"Come and tell me about it," said the mother, gently, "what has gone
wrong, little one?"
"Everything!" exclaimed Erica, vehemently. "Everything always does

go wrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never sent
me to school, mother; I wish I need never see the place again!"
"But till today you enjoyed it so much."
"Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never be
the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to Gertrude
again--to have noting more to do