Page:Pratt portraits - sketched in a New England suburb (IA prattportraitssk00full).pdf/227

 Would she ever touch pen to paper again? No! Never! Never! Never!

She was out on the long bridge now that led to the city. She did not often get so far as that in her walks, even on a fair day. Here the wind had room to rage, unimpeded by trees or buildings. She bent her head and fought her way in the teeth of the storm, looking neither to the right nor to the left, where, on either side of the bridge, the great sheets of ice were being tossed upon the dark waters.

Suddenly Dixie gave a joyful bark of recognition, and a pair of long legs, clad in much-bespattered trousers, appeared a few feet away, in the line of her down bent vision. She steered off to the right, but the legs stood still, and an alarmingly familiar voice exclaimed:

"Why! Miss Hattie! Where are you going?"

"I am going for a walk, Mr. Swain," she said, distinctly, trying to pass him by.

"Ror a walk? My child, are you crazy? You will get blown off the bridge!"

He had turned and was walking by her side. She said nothing, but pushed on faster and faster.

"I see you are trying to get away from me," he remarked, as he easily kept alongside of her, in spite of his slightly limping gait.

"I came out to have a walk by myself," she shouted back, for the wind was roaring.

"I shall not let you walk alone on this