I am glad if the letters have, as you
say, helped you through the worst of the siege; they surely
have helped me. But now--our ways part. Sometime I may give
you a hail from somewhere--when I am lonely and longing to
know how you get on. And sometime I may be back at my old
home. But wherever I am I shall never forget you, Jordan King,
for you have put something into my life which was not there
before and I am the better for it. As for you--your life will
not be one whit the less big and efficient for this trying
experience; it will be bigger, I think, and finer. I am glad,
glad I have known you.
ANNE LINTON.
For the hundredth time King felt his heart sink as he thought of that
prevented last interview. His mother had prevented it. It was perfectly
true that he was out, and away from home--out in a wheeled chair, which
had been pushed by Franz through a gap in the hedge between the Kings'
lawn and the Wentworths' next door. Just on the other side of that hedge
the chair had paused, where Sally Wentworth, his friend of long
standing, was serving tea to a little group of young people, all
intimates and all delighted to have the invalid once more in their
midst. Under the group of great copper beeches which made of that corner
of the Wentworth lawn a summer drawing room, King had sat in his chair
drinking tea and listening to gay chatter--and wondering why he had not
been able to get Anne Linton on the telephone so far that day.
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