Mr. Achilles by Jennette Barbour Perry Lee
page 83 of 149 (55%)
page 83 of 149 (55%)
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She questioned him and moved a little away, and he came and sat at her feet, telling her of himself--with quiet slowness. As she questioned him he told her all that he knew. And they chatted in the sunshine--subtly drawn to each other--happy in something they could not have said. The boy had grown refined by his illness--the sturdy hands that had guided the push-cart had lost their roughened look and seemed the shape of some old statue; and the head, poised on the round throat, was as if some old museum had come to life and laughed in the sun. If Mrs. Philip Harris had seen Alcibiades shoving his cart before him, along the cobbled street, his head thrown back, his voice calling "Ban-an-nas!" as he went, she would not have given him a thought. But here, in her garden, in the white clothes that he wore, and sitting at her feet, it was as if the gates to another world had opened to them--and both looked back together at his own life. The mystery in the boy's eyes stirred her--and the sound of his voice... there was something in it... beauty, wonder--mystery. She drew a quick breath. "I think I will go in," she said, and the boy lifted himself to help her--and only left her, under the loggia, with a quick, grateful flash of the dark smile. Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night--the chloral, on the little table beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden. All the household watched--with quickened hope. The mistress of the house had taken up her life, and the old quick orders ran through the house. And no one spoke of the child. It was as if she were asleep--in some distant room--veiled in her cloud. But the house came back to its life. Only, the social groups that had filled it every summer were not there. But there was the Greek boy, in the garden, and Miss Stone, and |
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