It was the first summer I was there, and Lawrence had
driven out into the country with me to see a sick patient. When we were
coming back, he asked me to stop with him at a farm-house, where some
members of his church lived. I remember the place as if I had seen it
yesterday, an old red brick building, with honeysuckle climbing about
the porch and cherry-trees on the lawn. The front door was open, and
there was a flight of stairs right opposite, and while we waited for an
answer to the bell a beautiful woman, tall and graceful, paused at the
head of the stairs above us, and then came down. To my eyes she was the
most beautiful woman I had ever seen, Beth. She was dressed in white,
and had a basket of flowers on her arm. She smiled as she came towards
us. Her hair was glossy-black, parted in the middle, and falling in
waves about her smooth white forehead; but her eyes were her real
beauty, I never saw anything like them, Beth. They were such great,
dark, tender eyes. They seemed to have worlds in them. It was not long
before I loved Florence Waldon. I loved her." His voice had a strange,
deep pathos in it. "She was kind to me always, but I hardly dared to
hope, and one day I saw her bidding good-bye to Lawrence.
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