She was trying hard, not altogether successfully, to fix her
attention on her task, when a yellow leaf dropped on the very
line she was poring over. Thinking how soon the trees would be
bare once more, she brushed the leaf away, and resumed her
lesson.
"To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,"
she had just read once more, when down fell a second tree-leaf on
the book-leaf. Again she brushed it away, and read to the end of
the sonnet:
"Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure."
What Letty's thoughts about the sonnet were, I can not tell: how
fix thought indefinite in words defined? But her angel might well
have thought what a weary road she had to walk before she gained
that entrance. But for all of us the road _has_ to be
walked, every step, and the uttermost farthing paid. The gate
will open wide to welcome us, but it will not come to meet us.
Neither is it any use to turn aside; it only makes the road
longer and harder.
Down on the same spot fell the third leaf. Letty looked up. There
was a man in the tree over her head. She started to her feet. At
the same moment, he dropped on the ground beside her, lifting his
hat as coolly as if he had met her on the road. Her heart seemed
to stand still with fright. She stood silent, with white lips
parted.
"I hope I haven't frightened you," said Tom. "Do forgive me," he
added, becoming more aware of the perturbation he had caused her.
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