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Fox, John, 1863-1919

"The Trail of the Lonesome Pine"

The checks
that she gave him jingled in his hands like a bunch of keys, and
he could hardly help grinning when he saw the huge trunks and the
smart bags that were tumbled from the baggage car--all marked with
her initials. There had been days when he had laid considerable
emphasis on pieces like those, and when he thought of them
overwhelming with opulent suggestions that debt-stricken little
town, and, later, piled incongruously on the porch of the cabin on
Lonesome Cove, he could have laughed aloud but for a nameless
something that was gnawing savagely at his heart.
He felt almost shy when he went back into the car, and though June
greeted him with a smile, her immaculate daintiness made him
unconsciously sit quite far away from her. The little fairy-cross
was still at her throat, but a tiny diamond gleamed from each end
of it and from the centre, as from a tiny heart, pulsated the
light of a little blood-red ruby. To him it meant the loss of
June's simplicity and was the symbol of her new estate, but he
smiled and forced himself into hearty cheerfulness of manner and
asked her questions about her trip.


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