The out-lived winter's snow still
in the hollows, last summer's leaves blown meaninglessly about, denied
even the repose of burial, the cheerless wind and the cheerless rain--it
matched his mood.
Almost a year had gone by, and Dr. Parkman was going out to see
Ernestine. Every mile which brought him nearer, brought added uncertainty
as to what he should say when he reached her. What was there for him to
say? The dead leaves of her hopes were all huddled in the hollow. Was he
becoming so irrational as to think he could give life to things dead? Was
she not right in wishing to cover them up decently and let them be? Was
anything to be gained in blowing them about as last summer's leaves were
being blown about now by the unsparing, uncaring winds of March?
She was out where she had lived as a girl,--living in the very house
which had once been her home. He had understood her going. It was the
simple law of living things. The animal wounded beyond all thought of
life seeks only a place of seclusion.
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