“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you —when we first met. She winked at him as he shut the door. “After all,” she said, “if this person will not be reasonable, I am afraid——” It was enough. She met him by the dugout after the game. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory.
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