Clayton and
Dorothy come to the "Hermitage." Then I went back to spend the
intervening time with Dorothy. She was truly lovely to me now. Her hair
was more glistening and more golden; her eyes more elfin; the arch of
her nose more patrician. She was gentle and tender. It seemed that all
misunderstandings between us had dissolved. We did not mention any of
the disagreeable things of the past. We communicated with each other
against a background of Zoe being dead, of my being gone from the farm.
Chicago, its growth, its color, its picturesque location by the great
lake, made her eyes dance. She could not hear enough of it. She had
outgrown the Cumberland hills. Her life was monotonous here. As I talked
to Dorothy I had a clearer vision of Abigail. I felt sure now that
Abigail had no magnetism for me. At the same time I began to recall what
I had thought of Dorothy: her southern ways, her aristocratic ideas, her
leisurely life, her cultural environment making for the lady, for the
Walter Scott romanticism. Chicago had blown the mists from my eyes. I
had lived under a clear sky, breathed rough and invigorating breezes.
Yet I was drawn to Dorothy. My mind was poised in a delicate balance.
And as I had impulsively given Zoe half the farm, I now suddenly
proposed to Dorothy while turning from Dorothy to Abigail and from
Abigail to Dorothy.
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