Once, as she sat
with her pen poised, thinking how to phrase a sentence, Linda
said to herself: "I wonder in my heart if he won't try to come
crawfishing back to Marian now, and if he does, I wonder, oh, how
I wonder, what she will do." Linda shut her lips very tight and
stared up through her skylight to the stars, as she was fast
falling into a habit of doing when she wanted inspiration.
"Well, I know one thing," she said to the shining things above
her, "Marian will do as she sees fit, of course, but if it were
I, and any man had discarded me as John Gilman discarded Marian,
in case he ever wanted to pick me up again he would find I was
not there. Much as I plan in my heart for the home and the man
and the little people that I hope to have some day, I would give
up all of them before I would be discarded and re-sought like
that; and knowing Marian as I do, I have a conviction that she
will feel the same way. From the things she is writing about
this Snow man I think it is highly probable that he may awake
some day to learn that he is not so deeply grieved but that he
would like to have Marian to comfort him in his loneliness; and
as for his little girl I don't see where he could find a woman
who would rear her more judiciously and beautifully than Marian
would."
She finished her letter, sealed and stamped it, and then, taking
out a fresh sheet, she lettered in at the top of it, "INDIAN
POTATOES" and continued:
And very good potatoes they are.
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