Лето
I
Anarrowgreenishmirrorwithagilteagleoverithungonthepassagewall,andshelookedcriticallyatherreflection,wishedforthethousandthtimethatshehadblueeyeslikeAnnabelBalch,thegirlwhosometimescamefromSpringfieldtospendaweekwitholdMissHatchard,straightenedthesunburnthatoverhersmallswarthyface,andturnedoutagainintothesunshine.
“HowIhateeverything!”shemurmured.
TheyoungmanhadpassedthroughtheHatchardgate,andshehadthestreettoherself.NorthDormerisatalltimesanemptyplace,andatthreeo’clockonaJuneafternoonitsfewable-bodiedmenareoffinthefieldsorwoods,andthewomenindoors,engagedinlanguidhouseholddrudgery.
Thegirlwalkedalong,swingingherkeyonafinger,andlookingaboutherwiththeheightenedattentionproducedbythepresenceofastrangerinafamiliarplace.What,shewondered,didNorthDormerlookliketopeoplefromotherpartsoftheworld?Sheherselfhadlivedtheresincetheageoffive,andhadlongsupposedittobeaplaceofsomeimportance.Butaboutayearbefore,Mr.Miles,thenewEpiscopalclergymanatHepburn,whodroveovereveryotherSunday—whentheroadswerenotploughedupbyhauling—toholdaserviceintheNorthDormerchurch,hadproposed,inafitofmissionaryzeal,totaketheyoungpeopledowntoNettletontohearanillustratedlectureontheHolyLand;andthedozengirlsandboyswhorepresentedthefutureofNorthDormerhadbeenpiledintoafarm-waggon,drivenoverthehillstoHepburn,putintoaway-trainandcarriedtoNettleton.
