She wondered
where he lived, and whether she would see him soon again. Poor child!
She was really innocent, and only dimly surmised how he would haunt her
hereafter. Would he look well in citizen's clothes? How would Norman
Mann seem in his uniform? She wished she had a jacket cut like his. And
so on in an indolent way. But penitence was getting the better of her,
and after vainly trying to read or write, she settled herself down for
a cry. To think that she, Mae Madden, could have acted so absurdly. She
never would forgive herself, never. Then she cried some more, a good
deal more.
About four in the afternoon a very bright sunbeam peeped through her
closed blinds, and she brushed away her tears, and peace came back to
her small heart, and she felt like a New England valley after a shower,
very fresh and clean, and goodly,--just a trifle subdued, however.
She would go to church. She had heard that there was lovely music at
vespers, in the little church at the foot of Capo le Case.
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