By Charlotte Armstrong
Booklet by way of Charlotte Armstrong
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This earth was dampish and richly dark. She told him it was in good tilth. Mr. Gibson squatted down to admire and, at the same time, to taste and turn and enjoy a word that was new to him. What a wonderful word! Tilth. He understood it immediately. She said the roses needed mulchng and he learned about mulch. She showed him how delicately she had pruned this one rose bush, how the buds must be left to grow outward. She seemed to understand what the plant needed. It seemed to him that she felt toward this one plant— all she could manage yet—much as he felt toward her, Rosemary.
Her eyes went to the papers. " he asked quickly. She shook her head. "Have you ever held a job. " "No, I . . Dad needed me. " It was easy for Mr. Gibson to understand perfectly what had happened to her. " he asked. " he asked her gently. " "I am thirty-two. And it's late, isn't it? " He thought she needed somewhere to rest, above everything. "Have you a friend? " "I'll have to find a place to live," she said evasively. He divined that there was no such friend. The difficult old man no doubt had driven all well-meaning people away.
In the evening, he built a fire (for there is something about a fire, too) and he read to her. He read some poetry. It gave him such pleasure to realize that she was going to be the best pupil he had ever had. She listened so intently. It was lively to listen so. It was a spark of life which he would fan. " It made him wince to understand how eight years of her life had been spent alone with that which could not have been called sane. No wonder, he said to himself. No wonder it has nearly killed her.