He's seen it. I can't slip out the back door. He'd hear me
on the crust. He'll--ask me--to-night! Oh, he will! he will! and I
said to myself I'd be cunning and never give him a chance. Oh, why
couldn't aunt Luceba have stayed? My soul! my soul!" And then the
dramatic fibre, always awake in her, told her that she had found the
tone she sought.
He was blanketing his horse, and Isabel had flown into the
sitting-room. Her face was alive with resolution and a kind of joy. She
had thought. She threw open the chest, with a trembling hand, and
pulled out the black dress.
"I'm sorry," she said, as she slipped it on over her head, and speaking
as if she addressed some unseen guardian, "but I can't help it. If you
don't want your things used, you keep him from coming in!"
The parson knocked at the door. Isabel took no notice. She was putting
on the false front, the horn spectacles, the cashmere shawl, and the
leghorn bonnet, with its long veil. She threw back the veil, and closed
the chest. The parson knocked again. She heard him kicking the snow
from his feet against the scraper. It might have betokened a decent
care for her floors. It sounded to Isabel like a lover's haste, and
smote her anew with that fear which is the forerunner of action.
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