Everything stood solid in its
familiar place; the apple tree was too small to support or hide a
climber; the only shed stood open and obviously empty; there was no
sound save the droning of summer flies and the occasional flutter of
a bird unfamiliar enough to be surprised by the scarecrow in the
field; there was scarcely a shadow save a few blue lines that fell
from the thin tree; every detail was picked out by the brilliant day
light as if in a microscope. The girl described the scene later,
with all the passionate realism of her race, and, whether or no the
policemen had a similar eye for the picturesque, they had at least
an eye for the facts of the case, and were compelled to give up the
chase and retire from the scene. Bridget Royce remained as if in a
trance, staring at the sunlit garden in which a man had just
vanished like a fairy. She was still in a sinister mood, and the
miracle took in her mind a character of unfriendliness and fear, as
if the fairy were decidedly a bad fairy. The sun upon the glittering
garden depressed her more than the darkness, but she continued to
stare at it. Then the world itself went half-witted and she
screamed. The scarecrow moved in the sun light. It had stood with
its back to her in a battered old black hat and a tattered garment,
and with all its tatters flying, it strode away across the hill.
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