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Jackson
rEP/SO^IS ROHD TO
id around the block in which his cottage stood, imaginjig chance encounters. However, on the day when she id glimpsed him in the shadows of the screened-in irch she had fled.
That afternoon, after the concert, Helen walked up ie hill with the harpist and his wife, whom she knew. "What's George Possell like?" She tried to keep her lice cool and casual.
"We'll let you judge that for yourself," the harpist ■Id her. "George!" he shouted. "Hi, there— George !"
When the man climbing the other side of the hill trned Helen recognized George Possell.
"Hello," he called over his shoulder. "Hello, there."
c didn't stop. It didn't seem to occur to him to wait.
"He's none too friendly, certainly." Helen slackened ir pace. If he didn't want to meet her she didn't want i meet him either !
Then gradually George Possell slowed up. As if he ould wait for them without appearing to, as if he ould not seem too anxious.
There were introductions. Then all four continued > the hill. Helen and George led the way.
"I've missed you," he told her. "I grew accustomed
seeing you always in the same seat and the past few lys when you weren't there seemed lonely."
Helen wanted to shout. To dance. He had been vare of her! Out of all the people in the audience it
had been her he had noticed ! And during the few day? she had been away visiting in Boston he had missed her !
After that they walked often together that summer, through quiet woods where spicy pine needles were thick upon the ground. They swam and rested for hours on a raft with the sun warm upon them. They drove along moonwashed roads. Helen tried not to think how it would be when the Chautauqua season was Over, when summer burned itself out in the color and haze of September. Of how it would l>e when she returned to the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia where she was studying on a scholarship, and he went to New York to fill his winter engagements.
"For him — " slge told herself defensively, "for him this might lie only a summer flirtation, nothing more !"
But a day came when she couldn't torture herself with that doubt any longer. She felt his eyes warm ujHin her and heard his voice turn tender as he said her name. They always would lie together. She knew it.
She told George Possell about her childhood, of her high school years in Akron, Ohio. It wasn't the happy, triumphant story to lie expected from a girl so slim and tall, with hair so golden, and brown eyes forever turning from grave to gay. It was a story of a little girl who lost her mother when she was just thirteen, of a little girl who looked after her three-year-old sister and cooked and washed and swept and (Continued on page 74)
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