A fair and slender lady with a sweet pale face stood before
him; in one hand she held a needle, and in the other a bright-colored
garment which resembled a baby's jacket. He felt rather than saw that
he was in Emily's presence. His head and his heart seemed equally
turbulent. A hundred memories from the buried past rose dimly into
sight, and he could not chase them away. It was so difficult, too, to
identify this grave and worn, though still young face, with that soft,
dimpled, kitten-like Emily, who had conquered his youth and made his
life hers. Ah! poor little dimpled Emily; yes, he feared she would
never return to him. And he sighed at the thought that she had
probably lost now all that charming naughtiness which he had once
spent so much time in disapproving of. He was suddenly roused from
these reflections by a vague, half-whispered cry; Emily had fled to
the other end of the room, thrown herself on the bed, and pressed her
face hard down among the pillows. It was an act which immediately
recalled the Emily of former days, a childish, and still natural
motion like that of some shy and foolish animal which believes itself
safe when its head is hidden. Storm closed the door, walked up to the
bed, and seated himself on a hard, wooden chair.
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