Sylvia Raynor must be nothing to
me.
I greatly wished for Walkirk. I knew he would encourage me, in spite of
the obvious blackness of the situation. It was impossible for me to
encourage myself. But, however black my fate might be, I longed to know
why it had been made black and all about it, and so waited with a savage
impatience for the morning and Mother Anastasia.
Immediately after breakfast, the next day, I was on the Maple Ridge
road, strolling from our village toward the top of a hill a mile or more
away, whence I could see the rest of the road, as it wound through the
lonely country, and at last lost itself in the woods. Back again to
Arden I came, and had covered the distance between the village and the
hilltop five times, when, turning and coming down the hill, I saw, far
away, the figure of a woman walking.
I knew it was Mother Anastasia, but I did not hasten to meet her. In
fact, I thought the further she was from the village, when our interview
took place, the more likely she would be to make it long enough to be
satisfactory. I came slowly down the hill, and, reaching a place where a
great oak-tree shaded the road, I waited.
She came on quickly, her gray dress appearing heavier and more sombre
against the sun-lighted grass and foliage than it had appeared in the
dreary room of the House of Martha.
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