Now and then, there was a picture
post-card from Mrs. Patterson, with a loving message to Anne or two or
three lines to Honey-Sweet. The invalid was not improving. In fact, she
was growing worse. So the days wore on till February.
One crisp frosty morning found Mrs. Patterson lying on a couch beside
her window. In the foreground was a park-like expanse with trees showing
their graceful branching in exquisite tracery against the clear blue
sky. Beyond lay Paris, its red and gray roofs showing among the bare
trees, with domes, spires, and gilded crosses cresting the irregular
line.
"The view here is beautiful, is it not?" said Miss Drayton.
Mrs. Patterson did not move her eyes from the horizon line. "I was
thinking of home," she said. "How beautiful it is there these February
mornings! Our noble rows of elms and oaks and maples! Up the avenue, the
domes of the Capitol and the Library are shining against the gray or
gold or rosy sky. And there is the monument pointing heavenward. Oh, the
broad streets, the merry, busy throngs of our own people! I should like
to see it all again. Sarah, let us go home. I want--to be there--my last
days."
Miss Drayton's eyes filled with tears, but she kept her voice steady:
"It shall be as you wish, sister.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84