Mary had married a wealthy lawyer of the same city; and Fred had opened
a real estate office in a thriving Southern town.
Jane had stayed at home. There had been a time, it is true, when she had
planned to go away to school; but the death of Mrs. Pendergast left no
one at home to care for Mary and Fred, so Jane had abandoned the idea.
Later, after Mary had married and Fred had gone away, there was still
her father to be cared for, though at this time he was well and strong.
Jane had passed her thirty-fifth birthday, when she became palpitatingly
aware of a pair of blue-gray eyes, and a determined, smooth-shaven chin
belonging to the recently arrived principal of the village school. In
spite of her stern admonition to herself to remember her years and not
quite lose her head, she was fast drifting into a rosy dream of romance
that was all the more enthralling because so belated, when the summons
of a small boy brought her sharply back to the realities.
"It's yer father, miss. They want ye ter come," he panted. "Somethin'
has took him. He's in Mackey's drug store, talkin' awful queer. He ain't
his self, ye know. They thought maybe you could--do somethin'."
Jane went at once--but she could do nothing except to lead gently home
the chattering, shifting-eyed thing that had once been her father.
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