It was golden September also at Fallkill. And
Alice sat by the open window in her room at home,
looking out upon the meadows where the laborers were
cutting the second crop of clover. The fragrance
of it floated to her nostrils. Perhaps she did
not mind it. She was thinking. She had
just been writing to Ruth, and on the table before
her was a yellow piece of paper with a faded four-leaved
clover pinned on it—only a memory now.
In her letter to Ruth she had poured out her heartiest
blessings upon them both, with her dear love forever
and forever.
“Thank God,” she said, “they will
never know”
They never would know. And the world never knows
how many women there are like Alice, whose sweet but
lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentle, faithful,
loving souls, bless it continually.
“She is a dear girl,” said Philip, when
Ruth showed him the letter.
“Yes, Phil, and we can spare a great deal of
love for her, our own lives are so full.”
Perhaps some apology to the reader is necessary in
view of our failure to find Laura’s father.
We supposed, from the ease with which lost persons
are found in novels, that it would not be difficult.
But it was; indeed, it was impossible; and therefore
the portions of the narrative containing the record
of the search have been stricken out. Not because
they were not interesting—for they were;
but inasmuch as the man was not found, after all,
it did not seem wise to harass and excite the reader
to no purpose.
