But Reuther was no longer there. She had fled quickly away with
the memory of what was to make this day a less dreary one for her.
Morning passed and the noon came, bringing Deborah an increased
uneasiness. When lunch was over and Reuther sat down to her piano,
the feeling had grown into an obsession, which soon resolved
itself into a definite fear.
"What if an attack, such as I once saw, should come upon him while
he sits upon the bench! Why have I not thought of this before? O
God! these evil days! When will they be over!"
She found herself so restless that she decided upon going out.
Donning her quietest gown and veil, she looked in on Reuther and
expressed her intention; then slipped out of the front door,
hardly knowing whither her feet would carry her.
They did not carry her far,--not at this moment at least. On the
walk outside she met Miss Weeks hurrying towards her from the
corner, stumbling in her excitement and so weakened in body or
spirit that she caught at the unresponsive fence for the support
which its smooth surface refused to give her.
At sight of Deborah's figure, she paused and threw up her hands.
"Oh, Mrs. Scoville, such a dreadful thing!" she cried. "Look
here!" And, opening one of her hands, she showed a few torn scraps
of paper whose familiarity made Deborah's blood run cold.
"On the bridge," gasped the little lady, leaning against the fence
for support. "Pasted on the railing of the bridge. I should never
have seen it, nor looked at it, if it hadn't been that I--"
"Don't tell me here," urged Deborah.
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