CHAPTER XVII
IT wasn't until the last days of October were slipping slowly through a mellow Indian summer into November that Reba felt anything but gladness and thanksgiving for the heaven-sent inspiration that had imbued her with courage sufficient to marry Nathaniel Cawthorne. The realization of the significance of her vows to the vague, distant sailor, and his to her, was a refuge she sought every time her spirit was tried and troubled, a haven of comfort, a promise of escape. Amidst all the fault-finding at 89 Chestnut Street, and ill-feeling directed toward her, Nathan's shy tributes of praise and gentle homage were precious possessions of Reba's which she would take out from their secret place, now and again, and contemplate, as jewels from a hidden box.
As sweet as victory was to Augusta Morgan she felt nothing but rancor for Reba, who had made her pay such a price for triumph. During the week or two preceding her aunts' departure for Maine, Reba endured all sorts of cruelties—long tirades on her "doings" at the Alliance, thrusts at her age, and frequent jibes at her failure to marry. She bore the hectoring in silence, much as in the past, but there was something different about her silence now. It was less meek, and sometimes the impertinent girl actually smiled, Aunt Augusta observed. When Reba smiled, it was when she felt the tiny gold weapon, that some
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