Лето

           Thesunwassetting,andduskhadalreadyfallenonthelowerworld,butayellowglarestilllayonthelonelyhillsideandthecrouchinghouses.Thenextmomentitfadedandleftthelandscapeindarkautumntwilight.

           “Overthere,”Liffcalledout,stretchinghislongarmoverMr.Miles’sshoulder.Theclergymanturnedtotheleft,acrossabitofbaregroundovergrownwithdocksandnettles,andstoppedbeforethemostruinousofthesheds.Astove-pipereacheditscrookedarmoutofonewindow,andthebrokenpanesoftheotherwerestuffedwithragsandpaper.

           Incontrasttosuchadwellingthebrownhouseintheswampmighthavestoodforthehomeofplenty.

           Asthebuggydrewuptwoorthreemongreldogsjumpedoutofthetwilightwithagreatbarking,andayoungmanslouchedtothedoorandstoodtherestaring.InthetwilightCharitysawthathisfacehadthesamesoddenlookasBashHyatt’s,thedayshehadseenhimsleepingbythestove.Hemadenoefforttosilencethedogs,butleanedinthedoor,asifrousedfromadrunkenlethargy,whileMr.Milesgotoutofthebuggy.

           “Isithere?”theclergymanaskedLiffinalowvoice;andLiffnodded.

           Mr.MilesturnedtoCharity.“Justholdthehorseaminute,mydear:I’llgoinfirst,”hesaid,puttingthereinsinherhands.Shetookthempassively,andsatstaringstraightaheadofheratthedarkeningscenewhileMr.MilesandLiffHyattwentuptothehouse.Theystoodafewminutestalkingwiththemaninthedoor,andthenMr.Milescameback.Ashecameclose,Charitysawthathissmoothpinkfaceworeafrightenedsolemnlook.