"David, _David_, DAVID," she said.
It occurred to me now for the first time (which shows how stupid I am)
that Harriet had already heard the story of Anna Williams. And it had
gained so much bulk and robustity in travelling, as such stories do in
the country, that I have no doubt the poor child seemed a sort of
devastating monster of iniquity. How the country scourges those who do
not walk the beaten path! In the, careless city such a one may escape to
unfamiliar streets and consort with unfamiliar people, and still find a
way of life, but here in the country the eye of Society never sleeps!
For a moment I was appalled by what I had done. Then I thought of the
Harriet I knew so well: the inexhaustible heart of her. With a sudden
inspiration I opened the kitchen door and we both looked in. The girl
stood motionless just where I left her: an infinitely pathetic figure.
"Harriet," I said, "that girl is hungry--and cold."
Well, it worked. Instantly Harriet ceased to be Society-at-Large and
became the Harriet I know, the Harriet of infinite compassion for all
weak creatures. When she had gone in I pulled my hat down and went
straight for the barn. I guess I know when it's wise to be absent from
places.
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