Thousands annually made long journeys and paid exorbitant prices to take
part in that pageant.
As Edith Carr passed, she was the most distinguished figure of the old
street. Her clinging black gown was sufficiently elaborate for a dinner
dress. On her head was a large, wide, drooping-brimmed black hat, with
immense floating black plumes, while on the brim, and among the laces
on her breast glowed velvety, deep red roses. Some way these made up
for the lack of colour in her cheeks and lips, and while her eyes seemed
unnaturally bright, to a close observer they appeared weary. Despite
the effort she made to move lightly she was very tired, and dragged her
heavy feet with an effort.
She turned at the little street leading to the dock, and went to meet
the big lake steamer ploughing up the Straits from Chicago. Past the
landing place, on to the very end of the pier she went, then sat down,
leaned against a dock support and closed her tired eyes. When the
steamer came very close she languidly watched the people lining the
railing. Instantly she marked one lean anxious face turned toward hers,
and with a throb of pity she lifted a hand and waved to Hart Henderson.
He was the first man to leave the boat, coming to her instantly. She
spread her trailing skirts and motioned him to sit beside her. Silently
they looked across the softly lapping water. At last she forced herself
to speak to him.
"Did you have a successful trip?"
"I accomplished my purpose.
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