Many a time in early
summer when out-of-doors she would be reminded of it by hearing some
bird sounding its love signal on a piece of dry wood--that tap of
heart-beat. Now it crashed close to her ear.
Such strength came back to her that she rose as lightly as though her
flesh were but will and spirit. When he knocked again, she was across
the room, sitting on the edge of her bed with her palms pressed
together and thrust between her knees: the instinctive act of a human
animal suddenly chilled to the bone.
The knocking sounded again.
"Was there anything you needed?" she asked fearfully.
There was no response but another knock.
She hurriedly raised her voice to make sure that it would reach him.
"Was there anything you wanted?"
As no response came, the protective maternal instinct took greater
alarm, and she crossed to the door of his room and she repeated her
one question:
"Did you forget anything?"
Her mind refused to release itself from the iteration of that idea: it
was some _thing_--not herself--that he wanted.
He knocked.
Her imagination, long oppressed by his silence, now made of his knock
some signal of distress. It took on the authority of an appeal not to
be denied.
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