"
She stopped, abruptly. The light died out of her
face. She glanced at me, half defiantly, half timidly,
as one who is not quite sure of what she has said. At
that I went over to her, and took her work-worn hands in
mine, and smiled down into the faded blue eyes grown dim
with tears and watching.
"Perhaps--who knows?--the little sister may come yet.
I feel it. She will walk up the little path, and try the
handle of the door, and it will turn beneath her fingers,
and she will enter."
With my arm about her we walked down the path toward
the old-fashioned arbor, bare now except for the tendrils
that twined about the lattice. The arbor was fitted with
a wooden floor, and there were rustic chairs, and a
table. I could picture the sisters sitting there with
their sewing during the long, peaceful summer afternoons.
Alma Pflugel would be wearing one of her neat gingham
gowns, very starched and stiff, with perhaps a snowy
apron edged with a border of heavy crochet done by the
wrinkled fingers of Grossmutter Pflugel. On the rustic
table there would be a bowl of flowers, and a pot of
delicious Kaffee, and a plate of German Kaffeekuchen,
and through the leafy doorway the scent of the
wonderful garden would come stealing.
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