"DEAR ROGER POOLE: "I want to be friends again. Such friends as we were in the Tower
Rooms. I know I don't deserve it--but--please.
"MARY BALLARD."
It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
chorus of the universe. It seemed an astounding thing that she should
have written thus to him. He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
believe that such happiness could be his. Yet she had written it; that
she wanted to be--his friend.
At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship. But as he sat
down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
to him than friend.
And why not? Why shouldn't he dream? Mary was not like other women.
She looked above and beyond the little things. Might not a man offer
her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
in the sand-hills bloom?
And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here
beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
pine--with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.
He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the
sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain
luxuries of cushions and rugs. He saw her with him in deep still
groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,
meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness. He
saw--oh, dream of dreams--he saw a little white church among the
sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not
heard before Whittington rang them all for him. Later, perhaps, there
might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden--and Mary
in the garden.
So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,
needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and
space toward the goal of happiness.
He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.
"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said. "A telegraf
done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."