The fiction, of which I was living a part, in Wallencamp,
was taking on, it seemed to me, a tinge even of the tragic--perplexities
were deepening. I was becoming, more than ever, the suffering though
exalted heroine of a romance.
I rose, and dressed myself before the glass, I remember, with particular
care. I did not know why I should dread or avoid seeing the fisherman in
the evening, since the part I had to sustain in the interview was so
distinctly calm, dispassionate, and spiritually remote. At the same
time, I wished that my cheeks had not grown so pale and my eyes so
dark-rimmed and hollow. They bespoke the interesting part I had to play
in the world's tragedy, but were not, otherwise, so becoming as I could
have wished.
Earlier, the fisherman had sent me books from Providence. I would rather,
I thought, that he should take them back again. I remembered that I had
left one of them in my desk at the school-house, and put on my hat to go
after it.
"Going out to spend the evening, teacher?" said Madeline, as I opened the
door of the Ark, giving me at the same time a gay and knowing look.
"No," I said, gravely tolerant of the little woman's surveillance; "I'm
only going to the school-house for a book that I want.
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