He was like a
man who hears sounds and faint cries behind a thick wall, and there
are no doors and windows, and the bricks are too stout to be torn
apart.
He had been behind that wall all his life . . .
Amy's allusion to Maggie in the morning had been very slight, but
had shown quite clearly that she had heard all, and probably more,
than the truth. When he returned that morning he found his mother
alone, knitting a pink woollen comforter, her gold spectacles on the
end of her nose, her fresh lace cap crisp and dainty on her white
hair--the very picture of the dearest old lady in the world.
"Mother," he began at once, "what did Amy mean this morning about
myself and Maggie Cardinal?"
"Maggie who, dear?" his mother asked.
"Maggie Cardinal--the Cardinal niece, you know," he said
impatiently.
"Did she say anything? I don't remember."
"Yes, mother. You remember perfectly well. She said that they were
all talking about me and Maggie."
"Did she?" The old lady slowly counted her stitches. "Well, dear, I
shouldn't worry about what they all say--whoever 'they' may be."
"Oh, I don't care for that," he answered contemptuously, "although
all the same I'm not going to have Amy running that girl down.
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