The Heart Remembers

The Heart Remembers by Peggy Gaddis Page A

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Authors: Peggy Gaddis
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over her as she went once more into the forlorn little house.

Chapter Five
    By the end of the week, thanks to Aunt Hettie’s unflagging zeal, and Shelley’s own undaunted courage, the little old house was shining clean inside. Bright with fresh curtains and new paint and gay with slip-covers, with bowls of flowers around and new rag rugs scattered over the floors that had been freshly painted.
    Aunt Hettie had arrived on Saturday morning with the back of faithful old Lizzie stacked with potted plants, and when Shelley had cried out in protest, albeit with delight, Aunt Hettie had brushed her aside.
    â€œShucks, child, a house ain’t a home till you got some flowers growin’ around. You’ll have plenty in the garden once I find that triflin’ Mose to work on it. And I got so many potted plants I don’t scarcely know what to do with ’em. This here angel’s wing begonia’ll look right pretty here on your bookcase and I’ll put this bleedin’ heart on the table by the window. Soon’s the nights get a little warmer youcan set ’em on the verandah.”
    Shelley had brought her luggage with her when she came that morning and was now definitely settled in her own little home. Selena had been polite, but had had difficulty in concealing her relief at Shelley’s departure; a relief that Shelley had felt as keenly as Selena. Aunt Hettie was going to spend the night with Shelley and was as pleased as a child at the prospect. She and Shelley were fast friends by now.
    They walked from room to room of the house, a brief journey but one that they made slowly and happily, gloating over every bit of their work that had transformed the shabby old house into cheerful, modest comfort.
    There was a shiny new oil cook-stove in the kitchen and Aunt Hettie eyed it happily.
    â€œNow, ain’t that a fine stove? My, it certainly would seem like a treat to just strike a match, turn up a wick and start cooking, instead of having to chop wood and kindlin’ and build fires and wait for the stove to get hot,” she said happily, and Shelley laughed and hugged her.
    Sunday she and Aunt Hettie went to church, and Aunt Hettie saw to it that Shelley met everybody, including the gracious old minister. There was a pleasant, friendly buzzing about the newspaper, and when she went to bed that night, Shelley felt that she had made a most excellent start, both in her secret purpose and in her public enterprise.
    Now that the house was clean and shining, and the new equipment she had ordered for the newspaper plant would be arriving soon, she set about getting the office cleaned and ready. As she walked in on Monday morning, she was startled to see doors and windows wide, and through a thick cloud of dust she saw a strange man busily wielding a broom.
    â€œOh, good morning,” he greeted her politely, pausing in his labors. “If you’ve brought us some business,we’re very grateful, but it will be at least a week before we’re ready.”
    â€œI’m Shelley Kimbrough.”
    â€œOh, forgive me. My new boss! Editor and publisher of the
Harbour Pines Journal
, of course. My mistake. I was expecting somebody older and—er—much less decorative. Permit me to introduce myself,” said the man. “Philip Foster Esquire—printer extraordinary—who would like to be your staff. Together, I think we could stand this hick village—oh, forgive me, of course I mean this—er—charming little town on its ear—in a perfectly nice way, of course.”
    Shelley blinked, but laughed, for the man was disarmingly friendly and attractive.
    â€œBut I don’t understand, Mr.—Foster? Who engaged you?” she asked, puzzled.
    His smile was oddly charming. He was too thin, too gaunt, with eyes almost feverishly bright. But he was obviously an educated man; despite his worn, shabby garments his bearing was that of a gentleman.
    â€œWell,

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