"And I shall begin a long letter home," said Mary Lee, spreading out
her writing material on an old claw-footed table, by the window
overlooking the peacock.
All the trivial incidents of the trip had been stored away for this
very purpose. They ceased to be trivial when recorded as Mary Lee's
alert eyes had seen them, and with the colour her amusing descriptions
lent. It was a letter that seemed to carry a breath of fresh air with
it into the stuffy dining-room on Bank Street, where her mother first
read it, and into the hot office where Henry Marker took it later to
reread at his leisure. Just that one enthusiastic letter, bubbling
over with a young girl's happiness, was enough to repay him for any
sacrifice he had made to give her such pleasure, and the smile the
letter awakened stayed on in his tired eyes all day.
A sound of voices broke out through the house long before Mary Lee had
finished writing. There was much opening and shutting of doors, and
calling of gay messages across the halls as the old mansion awoke to
life. Long before she was dressed for dinner, Mary Lee saw a flutter
of ribbons and white gowns under the trees as some of the girls
strolled down to the springs through the lengthening shadows. Soon she
and Travis would be strolling there, too.
Some one began playing on the piano in the drawing-room below, and a
familiar air came floating up to her, clear and sweet.
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