Viewing page 129 of 145

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

328

Friday, November 23, 1928

looked back for a moment, and listened.  "He will probably call for Alan, too," she said, "And Alan won't be up at this unearthly hour.  Funny," she paused for a second, "it is an unearthly hour.  Noon is an earthly hour, when the birch trees are definitely white, and shadows are distinctly opaque and well defined, and the chirping of birds is sure and determined.  But this hour – it's unreal almost."

They walked over toward the sun dial, which had broken long before.  The brave little iron point, which had cast the hour infallibly in fair weather, had fallen and only the rustiness around a [[strikethrough]] little [[/strikethrough]] small hole in the stone indicated its previous vigil.  The numbers, the lettering, had all blended into the stone and made the contour of the whole soft, moulded it into [[strikethrough]] the [[/strikethrough]] graceful curves.  They tried to figure out just what it had said and meant.  The meaning of the words was hidden, but the beauty of the stone seemed to mean enough itself – perhaps that it had become so lovely from living here, conscious of every change every hour.  It gave Anne pleasure to look at it.  But now she listened again for the sound of tires turning on a pebbly country road.


329

Saturday, November 24, 1928

"You poor dear," she said to Harry, "you could have slept longer – and so could I.  Frank pounded so determinedly on my door, and said we would really be leaving at quarter of six.  Really, though, why did you get up?  You don't have [[strikethrough]] come [[/strikethrough]] go to the city?"

He smiled, "Frank couldn't put the top of the car up alone, and it may rain!"  Anne was silent.  She thought, of course, that he had gotten up to say goodbye to her, and that this was an excuse.  Of course, she hoped she was right, for she liked Harry.  The sort of quiet delicious sense of humor, the amused spectatorness, the depth and versatility of his culture and intelligence, and the charm and magnetism – all these things, which were so intrinsically his had appealed to her.  She had not known him long, and most of her time with him had also been with Frank.  However, her affection for harry had become real and sincere, and she knew that such a feeling must indeed be mutual to have sprung into existence at all, for just as the sun beats down upon the sun-flower with kindness and love, so the flower lifts its face upward