I have made the mistake of putting you in the home-guard
brigade and classing you fifty years behind your times. Don't tell me
you have an M.A. I can't stand it to-night."
"No, I haven't got one," answered Rose Mary with both a smile and a
longing in her voice. "I came home in the winter of my junior year.
My father was one of the Harpeth Valley boys who went out into the
world, and he came back to die under the roof where his fathers had
fought off the Indians, and he brought poor little motherless me to
leave with the aunts and Uncle Tucker. They loved me and cared for me
just as they did Uncle Tucker's son, who was motherless, too, and a
few years after he went out into the world to seek the fortune he felt
so sure of, I was given my chance at college. In my senior year his
tragedy came and I hurried back to find Uncle Tucker broken and old
with the horror of it, and with the place practically sold to avoid
open disgrace. His son died that year and left--left--some day I will
tell you the rest of it. I might have gone back into the world and
made a success of things and helped them in that way, from a
distance--but what they needed was--was me. And so I sat here many
sunset hours of loneliness and looked along Providence Road
until--until I think the Master must have passed this way and left me
His peace, though my mortal eyes didn't see Him. And now there lies my
home nest swung in a bower of blossoms full of the old sweetie birds,
the boy, the calf, puppy babies, pester chickens and--and I'm going to
take a large, gray, prowling night-bird back and tuck him away for
fear his cheeks will look hollow in the morning.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68