Observing which,
the horsey person sighed plaintively and shook his head, alternately
chewing upon and looking at his straw the while Barnabas read the
following:
Oh, Barnabas dear, when shall I see you again? I
am very foolish to-day perhaps, but though the sun shines
gloriously, I am cold, it is my heart that is cold, a
deadly chill--as if an icy hand had touched it. And I
seem to be waiting--waiting for something to happen,
something dreadful that I cannot avert. I fear you will
think me weak and fanciful, but, dear, I cannot help wondering
what it all means. You ask me if I love you.
Can you doubt? How often in my dreams have I seen
you kneeling beside me with your neck all bare and the
dripping kerchief in your hand. Oh, dear Wood of Annersley!
it was there that I first felt your arms about me,
Barnabas, and I dream of that too--sometimes. But
last night I dreamed of that awful race,--I saw you
gallop past the winning post again, your dear face all cut
and bleeding, and as you passed me your eyes looked into
mine--such an awful look, Barnabas. And then it
seemed that you galloped into a great, black shadow
that swallowed you up, and so you were lost to me, and
I awoke trembling.
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