Mary Roberts Rinehart

K (Illustrated) Mary Roberts Rinehart

The June moon had risen, sending broken shafts of white light through the ailanthus to the house door. When the girl came at last, she stepped out into a world of soft lights and wavering shadows, fragrant with tree blossoms not yet overpowering, hushed of its daylight sounds of playing children and moving traffic. The house had been warm. Her brawn hair lay moist on her forehead, her thin white dress was turned in at the throat. She stood on the steps, the door dosed behind her, and threw out her arms in a swift gesture to the cool air. The moonlight clothed her as with a garment. From across the Street the boy watched her with adoring, humble eyes. All his courage was for those hours when he was not with her. . . .