carefully how he might address it.
In a letter hidden inside an envelope, one might say whatever one wished, but the outside of the envelope was quite another thing, being completely exposed, as it were, to . . . to what? The hedge? The sky?
My love, my blessing, my neighbor, he scrawled with some abandon.
He licked the flap and pressed it down and sat for a moment with it under his hand, then took it to the kitchen and found a length of twine, which he looped around the neck of his patient dog. Lacking a hole punch, he stuck the tip of a steak knife through the corner of the envelope and ran the twine through the hole and tied it in a knot.
“There!” he said aloud.
He walked with Barnabas down the back steps and across the yard to the hedge. “OK, boy, take it to Cynthia!”
Barnabas lifted his leg against a rhododendron.
“Take it to Cynthia!” he said, wagging his finger in the direction of the little yellow house. “Over there! Go see Cynthia!”
Barnabas turned and looked at him with grave indifference.
“Cat!” he hissed. “Cynthia’s house! Cat, cat, cat!” That ought to do it.
Barnabas sniffed a few twigs that lay in the grass, then sat down and scratched vigorously.
Rats, what a dumb idea. In the old days, a fellow would have sent his valet or his coachman or some such, and here he was trying to send a dog—he deserved what he was getting.
“Go, dadgummit! Go to Cynthia’s back door, that’s where you love to go when you’re not supposed to!”
Barnabas gazed at him for a moment, then turned and bounded through the hedge and across her yard and up the steps to her stoop, where he sat and pressed his nose against the screen door, peering in.
He suddenly felt ten years old. Why couldn’t he think straight for five minutes in a row? His dog might sit at that door ’til kingdom come, with Cynthia having no clue Barnabas was out there. Should he run to the door and knock to alert her, then run away again?
This was suddenly the most ridiculous mess he’d gotten himself into in . . . ever. His face flamed.
“Timothy?” It was Cynthia, calling to him through her studio window. He’d utterly forgotten about her studio window.
“Umm, yes?”
“Why are you hiding behind the hedge?”
He was mortified. I have no idea, he wanted to say. “There’s a delivery” —he fairly thundered the word—“at your back door.”
“Oh,” she said.
He waited, covering his face with his hands.
“My goodness!” he heard her exclaim as she opened the screen door. “A letter on a string!”
Surely he would regret this.
“‘My love, my blessing, my neighbor’!” she crowed.
Did she have to inform the whole neighborhood?
“Go tell your master that I’ve received his most welcome missive . . . which I can barely get off the string. Ugh! . . . Oh, rats, wait ’til I get the scissors.”
His dog waited.
“And further,” she said, coming back and snipping the letter off, “do tell him I shall endeavor to respond promptly. However, my dear Barnabas, do not harbor, even for a moment, the exceedingly foolish hope that it will be delivered by Violet.”
The screen door slapped behind her.
The deed done, his dog arose, shook himself, and came regally down the steps, across the yard, and through the hedge, where, wearing the remains of the twine around his neck, he sat and gazed at his master with a decided air of disdain, if not utter disgust.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Prayer
S he pressed the letter to her heart, wishing the power of its message to enter her very soul and cause her to believe with the writer what an extraordinary benediction had come to them.
Yes, she loved him; in truth, more than life itself. And yet, the fear was beginning to creep in, the fear she had at last grown wise enough to recognize—that she could not please him and give him the joy that he above all others, deserved; the fear that Timothy, like Elliott, would not find her valuable enough for any true purpose;
In a letter hidden inside an envelope, one might say whatever one wished, but the outside of the envelope was quite another thing, being completely exposed, as it were, to . . . to what? The hedge? The sky?
My love, my blessing, my neighbor, he scrawled with some abandon.
He licked the flap and pressed it down and sat for a moment with it under his hand, then took it to the kitchen and found a length of twine, which he looped around the neck of his patient dog. Lacking a hole punch, he stuck the tip of a steak knife through the corner of the envelope and ran the twine through the hole and tied it in a knot.
“There!” he said aloud.
He walked with Barnabas down the back steps and across the yard to the hedge. “OK, boy, take it to Cynthia!”
Barnabas lifted his leg against a rhododendron.
“Take it to Cynthia!” he said, wagging his finger in the direction of the little yellow house. “Over there! Go see Cynthia!”
Barnabas turned and looked at him with grave indifference.
“Cat!” he hissed. “Cynthia’s house! Cat, cat, cat!” That ought to do it.
Barnabas sniffed a few twigs that lay in the grass, then sat down and scratched vigorously.
Rats, what a dumb idea. In the old days, a fellow would have sent his valet or his coachman or some such, and here he was trying to send a dog—he deserved what he was getting.
“Go, dadgummit! Go to Cynthia’s back door, that’s where you love to go when you’re not supposed to!”
Barnabas gazed at him for a moment, then turned and bounded through the hedge and across her yard and up the steps to her stoop, where he sat and pressed his nose against the screen door, peering in.
He suddenly felt ten years old. Why couldn’t he think straight for five minutes in a row? His dog might sit at that door ’til kingdom come, with Cynthia having no clue Barnabas was out there. Should he run to the door and knock to alert her, then run away again?
This was suddenly the most ridiculous mess he’d gotten himself into in . . . ever. His face flamed.
“Timothy?” It was Cynthia, calling to him through her studio window. He’d utterly forgotten about her studio window.
“Umm, yes?”
“Why are you hiding behind the hedge?”
He was mortified. I have no idea, he wanted to say. “There’s a delivery” —he fairly thundered the word—“at your back door.”
“Oh,” she said.
He waited, covering his face with his hands.
“My goodness!” he heard her exclaim as she opened the screen door. “A letter on a string!”
Surely he would regret this.
“‘My love, my blessing, my neighbor’!” she crowed.
Did she have to inform the whole neighborhood?
“Go tell your master that I’ve received his most welcome missive . . . which I can barely get off the string. Ugh! . . . Oh, rats, wait ’til I get the scissors.”
His dog waited.
“And further,” she said, coming back and snipping the letter off, “do tell him I shall endeavor to respond promptly. However, my dear Barnabas, do not harbor, even for a moment, the exceedingly foolish hope that it will be delivered by Violet.”
The screen door slapped behind her.
The deed done, his dog arose, shook himself, and came regally down the steps, across the yard, and through the hedge, where, wearing the remains of the twine around his neck, he sat and gazed at his master with a decided air of disdain, if not utter disgust.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Prayer
S he pressed the letter to her heart, wishing the power of its message to enter her very soul and cause her to believe with the writer what an extraordinary benediction had come to them.
Yes, she loved him; in truth, more than life itself. And yet, the fear was beginning to creep in, the fear she had at last grown wise enough to recognize—that she could not please him and give him the joy that he above all others, deserved; the fear that Timothy, like Elliott, would not find her valuable enough for any true purpose;
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