He had said she was the marrying kind. Here
was her chance. She wondered why she did not want to take it.
Clara had written her friend Kate Chanceller a letter in which she had
declared her intention of leaving home and going to work, and had come to
town afoot to mail it. On Main Street as she went through the crowds of
men who had come to loaf the evening away before the stores, the force
of what her father had said concerning the connection of her name with
that of Buckley the swindler had struck her for the first time. The men
were gathered together in groups, talking excitedly. No doubt they were
discussing Buckley's arrest. Her own name was, no doubt, being bandied
about. Her cheeks burned and a keen hatred of mankind had possession of
her. Now her hatred of others awoke in her an almost worshipful attitude
toward Hugh. By the time they had walked together for five minutes all
thought of using him to her own ends had gone. "He's not like Father or
Henderson Woodburn or Alfred Buckley," she told herself. "He doesn't scheme
and twist things about trying to get the best of some one else. He works,
and because of his efforts things are accomplished." The figure of the farm
hand Jim Priest working in a field of corn came to her mind. "The farm hand
works," she thought, "and the corn grows. This man sticks to his task in
his shop and makes a town grow."
In her father's presence during the afternoon Clara had remained calm and
apparently indifferent to his tirade.
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