He felt
her hot dry hand on his. Her eyes were closed, she was smiling.
"Tell me the news from the mountains," she said. And he gave her the gossip
of the farm in a letter he had had from George. It told of a picnic supper,
the first one of the season. They had had it in the usual place, down by
the dam on the river, "with a bonfire--a perfect peach--down by the big
yellow rock--the one you call the Elephant." As Roger read the letter he
could feel his daughter listening, vividly picturing to herself the great
dark boulders by the creek, the shadowy firs, the stars above and the cool
fresh tang of the mountain night.
"After this little sickness of yours--and that harum scarum wedding," he
said, "I feel we're both entitled to a good long rest in mountain air."
"We'll have it, too," she murmured.
"With Edith's little youngsters. They're all the medicine you need." He
paused for a moment, hesitating. But it was now or never. "The only trouble
with you," he said, "is that you've let yourself be caught by the same
disease which has its grip upon this whole infernal town. You're like
everyone else, you're tackling about forty times what you can do. You're
actually trying not only to teach but to bring 'em all up as your own,
three thousand tenement children. And this is where it gets you."
Again he halted, frowning. What next?
"Go on, dear, please," said Deborah, in demure and even tones.
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