His head was on her breast, and for one uncertain moment she
was not Francey Wilmot at all, but the warm living spirit of the
sunlight, of the quiet trees and the grass in which they lay--of all
the things of which he was afraid.
"Because you're such an odd, sad, little boy----"
3
After tea it began to rain, not dismally, but in a gentle way as people
cry who have been too happy.
"In this jolly old country fine weather means bad weather," Connie
Edwards commented cynically. She had reason to be depressed. The
impossible poppies dripped tears of blood over the brim of the
cartwheel hat. But apart from that misfortune she had never got over
her original mood of puzzled dissatisfaction, and she and Cosgrave
walked droopingly down the narrow lane arm in arm and almost wordless.
So much of winter days was left that it was dark when they reached the
foot of the hill--the eerie luminous darkness of the country when there
is a moon riding somewhere behind the clouds. Robert could see
Christine and Francey just ahead of him. Christine had taken Francey's
arm, and they talked together in undertones like people who have secret
things to say to one another. How small Christine was! She seemed to
have shrunk into a handful of a woman as though the sun had withered
her. She walked timidly, with bowed head, feeling her way. Her voice
lifted for a moment into the old clearness.
"His father was a wonderful man--a wonderful, good man.
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