He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. ” “You! Why, you have been an angel to her,” he exclaimed impatiently. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes.
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