He stepped toward the door, but Isabel darted in
front of him. She forgot her back breadth, and even through that dim
twilight the scarlet of her gown shone ruddily out. She placed herself
before the door.
"Don't you go!" she entreated hoarsely. "Let me think what I can say."
Then the parson had his first inkling that the strange visitor must be
mad. He wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and the idea
speedily coupled itself with Isabel's strange disappearance. He stepped
forward and grasped her arm, trembling under the cashmere shawl.
"Woman," he demanded sternly, "what have you done with Isabel North?"
Isabel was thinking; but the question, twice repeated, brought her to
herself. She began to laugh, peal on peal of hysterical mirth; and the
parson, still holding her arm, grew compassionate.
"Poor soul!" said he soothingly. "Poor soul! sit down here by the stove
and be calm--be calm!"
Isabel was overcome anew.
"Oh, it isn't so!" she gasped, finding breath. "I'm not crazy. Just let
me be!"
She started under his detaining hand, for the knock had come again.
Wrenching herself free, she stepped into the entry. "Who's there?" she
called.
"It's your aunt Mary Ellen," came a voice from the darkness.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95