She wondered what had become
of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was
a child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly her memory of him
seemed to pervade the little church. She had the feeling he was watching
her from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her
the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she
would wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener's
pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin,
work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. "But I may lend it?" she
pleaded.
They turned up Church Street. Joan confided to Mary what a rotten
Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except
her landlady, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get
away.
"I don't know what made me think of you," she said. "I'm so glad I did."
She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. "Where are you going
now, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't mind so much now," answered Joan. "Now that I've seen a
friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early.
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