Yet he looked as if he would have run away if he had been given time, as thirsty as his heart was for the cool laving of those soft, brown eyes, as hungry as his soul for the music of her voice. But there was not time for retreat; Sallie was in the door.
She was dressed in white linen, and her face was as pale as some religious penitent's who had knelt night-long beside a shrine. The virginal sorrow of her eyes struck the heart like a sad soft chord from a great, vibrant organ. She paused in the door a moment, a packet of papers and letters in her hand.
Uncle Boley rose to greet her in the ceremonious way that he always carried toward her, and she went forward without hesitation, or reservation, or question in her heart, and gave Hartwell her hand. Certain now that he was to be neither blasted nor scorned, he placed the chair for her, and the little shop instantly became for him the most glorious place in the world.
"You wasn't expectin' to find this feller here, was you?" Uncle Boley asked in the bantering lightness so common in the manner of the old toward the young.
"I hoped I'd find Mr. Hartwell here, Uncle Boley," she admitted with frankness, lifting her eyes to Hartwell's face, a flush in her pale cheeks.
