"
There was silence for a minute. Even Honoria had grown excited
toward the end.
"But it was unfair!" she broke out. "It ought to have been the
convict-child that was saved."
"If so, I shouldn't be here," said George; "and it's not very nice of
you to say it."
"I don't care. It was unfair; and anyone but a boy "--with scorn--"
would see it." She turned upon the staring Taffy--"I hate your tale;
it was horrid."
She repeated it, that evening, as they turned their faces homeward
across the heathery moor. Taffy had halted on the top of a hillock
to wave good-night to George. For years he remembered the scene--the
brown hollow of the hills; the clear evening sky, with the faint
purple arch, which is the shadow of the world, climbing higher and
higher upon it; and his own shadow stretching back with his heart
toward George, who stood fronting the level rays and waved his
glittering catch of fish.
"What was that you said?" he asked, when at length he tore himself
away and caught up with Honoria.
"That was a horrid story you told. It spoiled my afternoon, and I'll
trouble you not to tell any more of the sort."
CHAPTER XI.
LIZZIE REDEEMS HER DOLL AND HONORIA THROWS A STONE.
A broad terrace ran along the southern front of Tredinnis House.
It had once been decorated with leaden statues, but of these only the
pedestals remained.
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