Read Online The Story of a Whim by Grace Livingston Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
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Winship read that second letter aloud to the other girls, she did not read the whole of it. The pages which contained the sketches she passed around freely, and they read and laughed over the Sunday school, and talked enthusiastically of its future; but the pages which told of the Sabbath-evening vision and of Christie's feeling toward the picture Hazel kept to herself.
She felt instinctively that Christie would rather not have it shown. It seemed so sacred to her and so wonderful. Her heart went out to the other soul seeking its Father.
When they were all gone out of her room that night, she locked her door and knelt a long time praying, praying for the soul of Christie Bailey. Something in the longing of that letter from the South had reproached her, that she, with all her helps to enlightenment, was not appreciating to its full the love and care of her heavenly Father. And so Christie unknowingly helped Hazel Winship nearer to her Master.
And then Hazel wrote the letter, in spite of a Greek thesis, The thesis in fact, that was waiting and calling to her with urgency—the letter that Christie carried home in his breast pocket.
He did not wait to eat his supper, though he gave the pony his. Indeed, it was not a very attractive function at its best.
Christie was really handsome that night, with the lamplight bringing out all the copper tints and garnet shadows in his hair. His finely cut lips curled in a pleasant smile of anticipation. He had not realized before how much, how very much, he wanted to hear from Hazel Winship again.
His heart was thumping like a girl's as he tore open the delicately perfumed envelope and took out the many closely written pages of the letter; and his heart rejoiced that it was long and closely written. He resolved to read it slowly and make it last a good while.
"My dear, dear Christie," it began, "your second letter has come, and first I want to tell you that I love you."
Christie gasped, and dropped the sheets upon the table, his arms and face upon him. His heart was throbbing painfully, and his breath felt like great sobs.
When he raised his eyes by and by, as he was growing to have a habit of doing, to the picture, they were full of tears; and they fell and blurred the delicate writing of the pages on the table, and the Christ knew and pitied him, and seemed almost to smile.
No one had ever told Christie Bailey of loving him, not since his mother those long years ago had held him to her breast and whispered to God to make her little Chris a good man.
He had grown up without expecting love. He scarcely thought he knew the meaning of the word. He scorned it in the only sense he ever heard it spoken of. And now, in all his loneliness, when he had almost ceased to care what the world gave him, to have this free, sweet love of a pure-hearted girl rushed upon him without stint and without cause overpowered him.
Of course he knew it was not his, this love she gave so freely and so frankly. It was meant for a person who never existed, a nice, homely old maid, whose throne in Hazel's imagination had come to be located in his cabin for some strange, wonderful reason; but yet it was his, too, his to enjoy, for it certainly belonged to no one else. He was robbing no one else to let his hungry heart be filled a little while with the fullness of it.
One resolve he made instantly, without hesitation, and that was that he would be worthy of such love if so be it in him lay to be. He would cherish it as a tender flower that had been meant for another, but had fallen instead into his rough keeping; and no thought or word or action of his should ever stain it.
Then with true knighthood in his heart to help him onward he raised his head and read on, a great joy upon him which almost engulfed him.
"And I believe you love me a little, too."
Christie caught his breath again. He saw that it was true, although he had not known it before.
"Shall I tell you why I think so? Because you have written me
She felt instinctively that Christie would rather not have it shown. It seemed so sacred to her and so wonderful. Her heart went out to the other soul seeking its Father.
When they were all gone out of her room that night, she locked her door and knelt a long time praying, praying for the soul of Christie Bailey. Something in the longing of that letter from the South had reproached her, that she, with all her helps to enlightenment, was not appreciating to its full the love and care of her heavenly Father. And so Christie unknowingly helped Hazel Winship nearer to her Master.
And then Hazel wrote the letter, in spite of a Greek thesis, The thesis in fact, that was waiting and calling to her with urgency—the letter that Christie carried home in his breast pocket.
He did not wait to eat his supper, though he gave the pony his. Indeed, it was not a very attractive function at its best.
Christie was really handsome that night, with the lamplight bringing out all the copper tints and garnet shadows in his hair. His finely cut lips curled in a pleasant smile of anticipation. He had not realized before how much, how very much, he wanted to hear from Hazel Winship again.
His heart was thumping like a girl's as he tore open the delicately perfumed envelope and took out the many closely written pages of the letter; and his heart rejoiced that it was long and closely written. He resolved to read it slowly and make it last a good while.
"My dear, dear Christie," it began, "your second letter has come, and first I want to tell you that I love you."
Christie gasped, and dropped the sheets upon the table, his arms and face upon him. His heart was throbbing painfully, and his breath felt like great sobs.
When he raised his eyes by and by, as he was growing to have a habit of doing, to the picture, they were full of tears; and they fell and blurred the delicate writing of the pages on the table, and the Christ knew and pitied him, and seemed almost to smile.
No one had ever told Christie Bailey of loving him, not since his mother those long years ago had held him to her breast and whispered to God to make her little Chris a good man.
He had grown up without expecting love. He scarcely thought he knew the meaning of the word. He scorned it in the only sense he ever heard it spoken of. And now, in all his loneliness, when he had almost ceased to care what the world gave him, to have this free, sweet love of a pure-hearted girl rushed upon him without stint and without cause overpowered him.
Of course he knew it was not his, this love she gave so freely and so frankly. It was meant for a person who never existed, a nice, homely old maid, whose throne in Hazel's imagination had come to be located in his cabin for some strange, wonderful reason; but yet it was his, too, his to enjoy, for it certainly belonged to no one else. He was robbing no one else to let his hungry heart be filled a little while with the fullness of it.
One resolve he made instantly, without hesitation, and that was that he would be worthy of such love if so be it in him lay to be. He would cherish it as a tender flower that had been meant for another, but had fallen instead into his rough keeping; and no thought or word or action of his should ever stain it.
Then with true knighthood in his heart to help him onward he raised his head and read on, a great joy upon him which almost engulfed him.
"And I believe you love me a little, too."
Christie caught his breath again. He saw that it was true, although he had not known it before.
"Shall I tell you why I think so? Because you have written me
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