Sophie and the Rising Sun by Augusta Trobaugh Page A

that her form began to lose all logical and rational meaning to him, and so it didn’t really come as a complete surprise to him when he began envisioning white wings behind her, wings that echoed the angle of her white arms.
    He looked back at his sketch, at the long, graceful neck of the crane snaking across an edge of the paper, and he began adding the wings, and below them—and yet a part of them—Sophie’s white arms. So that over the next quiet hour, the crane in his painting became—somehow—one with her: Sophie sitting in her canvas chair by the river, with sunlight on her arms, while behind her and yet with her, dreamlike and indistinct, the great crane stood with its wings outspread and its eyes full of love.
    And more. Something that had always been and that he had always known.
    Of course! The old fable of the Crane-Wife!
    Out of his childhood memory rushed back the old story of the poor woodcutter who rescued a great crane and nursed it back to health. So that by magic, the crane became a beautiful bride for him, bringing him good fortune. And love. The story his father’s mother had told to his father and his father had then told to him when he was just a little boy. And that he could now see on the paper.
    Well! He didn’t try to stop the smile of incredulity that curled about him. A poor gardener could hope to gain such a woman as this. If a poor woodcutter, why not a poor gardener?
    Then he chastised himself, but gently: Why, this is the kind of dreaming a young and impetuous man would do, and not a man of mature years!
    He glanced a little nervously at Sophie. My dear Sophie! What would you think if you knew I was imagining you as my Crane-Wife?
    But Sophie, who seemed to be too deeply engrossed in her painting to notice anything about Mr. Oto, was thinking that actually it was quite nice, having someone there with her—a quiet man. The way it would have been with Henry. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant thing to think about, even though the man sitting near her wasn’t Henry—would never be.
    She darted a glance at the completely unsuspecting little man and hid her embarrassed smile. If you only knew what I was thinking, she thought with amusement, it would frighten you right out of your wits!
    For an hour or more, they both painted, saying nothing but ever mindful of each other’s presence. Then Sophie began gathering up her paints, and Mr. Oto courteously pretended not to notice. But as she left, she smiled politely at him.
    “I have to go now. I hope you enjoy your painting.”
    “Thank you,” he managed to mumble, turning his paper just a bit so that she could not see the sketch of herself as the Crane-Wife from the old tale.
    On Monday morning, Mr. Oto worked again in Miss Anne’s front yard close to the sidewalk, and when Sophie passed by on her way to tend the crab traps, Mr. Oto’s glance at her lingered for a moment, and she caught the flicker of his eyes.
    “Good morning,” she said, but she neither slowed her steps nor looked directly at him—not that he could tell, anyway. And he did not rise from where he was kneeling in the flower beds. But still, he lifted off his hat and held it over his heart.
    “Good morning,” he answered in a strong voice to her back and received a nod of her head.
    My dear Miss Sophie , he did not add.
    The same thing transpired on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And on Thursday and Friday. Always the same. Her barely audible “Good morning,” and upon his stronger greeting, the curt nod of her head.
    Saturday seemed interminable, for Mr. Oto could find no peace at all in the day. He could think only of Sunday morning and perhaps being with her once again at the river. And so the day before this would possibly happen dragged on, seemingly without end.

Chapter Nine
     
    Miss Anne said:
     
    Late Saturday afternoon, my sink got stopped up, so I went down to get Mr. Oto to come and fix it for me. I knocked on the door, and when he opened it—why, I