Лето

           AsheturnedandfacedCharity,shenoticedthathislipsweretwitchingalittle;butthelookinhiseyeswasgraveandcalm.Oncehepausedbeforeherandsaidtimidly:“Yourhair’sgotkinderloosewiththewind,”andsheliftedherhandsandtriedtosmoothbackthelocksthathadescapedfromherbraid.Therewasalooking-glassinacarvedframeonthewall,butshewasashamedtolookatherselfinit,andshesatwithherhandsfoldedonherkneetilltheclergymanreturned.Thentheywentoutagain,alongasortofarcadedpassage,andintoalowvaultedroomwithacrossonanaltar,androwsofbenches.Theclergyman,whohadleftthematthedoor,presentlyreappearedbeforethealtarinasurplice,andaladywhowasprobablyhiswife,andamaninablueshirtwhohadbeenrakingdeadleavesonthelawn,cameinandsatononeofthebenches.

           TheclergymanopenedabookandsignedtoCharityandMr.Royalltoapproach.Mr.Royalladvancedafewsteps,andCharityfollowedhimasshehadfollowedhimtothebuggywhentheywentoutofMrs.Hobart’skitchen;shehadthefeelingthatifsheceasedtokeepclosetohim,anddowhathetoldhertodo,theworldwouldslipawayfrombeneathherfeet.

           Theclergymanbegantoread,andonherdazedmindthererosethememoryofMr.