Лето

           ”Shepaused,andfixedhereyesonthebroochwithabluestonethatCharityhadpinnedtoherblouse.

           “Ain’tyouashamedtotalkthatwaytoaladythat’sgottoearnherliving,whenyougoaboutwithjewellerylikethatonyou?...Itain’tinmyline,andIdoitonlyasafavour...butifyou’reamindtoleavethatbroochasapledge,Idon’tsayno....Yes,ofcourse,youcangetitbackwhenyoubringmemymoney....”

           Onthewayhome,shefeltanimmenseandunexpectedquietude.IthadbeenhorribletohavetoleaveHarney’sgiftinthewoman’shands,butevenatthatpricethenewsshebroughtawayhadnotbeentoodearlybought.Shesatwithhalf-closedeyesasthetrainrushedthroughthefamiliarlandscape;andnowthememoriesofherformerjourney,insteadofflyingbeforeherlikedeadleaves,seemedtoberipeninginherbloodlikesleepinggrain.Shewouldneveragainknowwhatitwastofeelherselfalone.Everythingseemedtohavegrownsuddenlyclearandsimple.ShenolongerhadanydifficultyinpicturingherselfasHarney’swifenowthatshewasthemotherofhischild;andcomparedtohersovereignrightAnnabelBalch’sclaimseemednomorethanagirl’ssentimentalfancy.

           Thatevening,atthegateoftheredhouse,shefoundAllywaitinginthedusk.“Iwasdownatthepost-officejustastheywereclosingup,andWillTargattsaidtherewasaletterforyou,soIbroughtit.”

           Allyheldouttheletter,lookingatCharitywithpiercingsympathy.Sincethesceneofthetornblousetherehadbeenanewandfearfuladmirationintheeyesshebentonherfriend.