Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children's stories; Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction
She was looking down and smiling at, and bowing to Phil on the street
below, while he tarried in the frosty air to execute a series of bows,
extravagant in their burlesque of profound respect; also he was at
intervals tossing up delicate balls of the soft snow, which it amused
him to see her dodge, though the glass protected her from their touch.
"Throw up the sash," he shouted, "and crown your hair with ermine!"
But she shook her head merrily, albeit there was a wistful look in her
eye, and she would have liked nothing better than to have gone down,
coated and mittened, and had a snow-frolic in the street.
Had it been some friendly back-yard, instead of one of the public
thoroughfares, or had they been seven and ten, instead of seventeen and
twenty, she would have gone in a minute.
And then she gave one of those flitting sighs to her happy past, which
is all that a happy girl of seventeen ever troubles herself about her
past.
She sighed again, though, and her face grew grave with a sweet, sad
gravity, born of something deeper than the desire for a snow-frolic;
and as she looked after the handsome young fellow, who had used up his
brief space of time in fun, and was now striding rapidly toward the
bank, to get there before the clock struck nine, she said aloud, and
wistfully:
"If I could only coax him to go with me! It might be a beginning of
something better. It would certainly be better than what he is doing
now. Mr. Easton is so interesting; I am almost certain he would enjoy
it if he could once form the habit of going."
Not all of this aloud. After the first slow, wistful sentence, she went
over the rest in her own thoughts, as she had done often and often
before, and advanced no farther toward a solution; for her face did not
clear as she arose and went about arranging the ribbons and laces in
her drawer.
There was need for anxious thought. At least, so it seemed to Daisy
Morris, Phil's cousin, and so it seemed to Aunt Mattie, Phil's mother.
Aunt and niece had spent hours already in serious talk over the
possibilities and dangers of this young man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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