Лето

           Royallsatintheporch,Verenabesidehim,heroldhandscrossedonherpatchedskirt.AsCharitywentdownthestepsMr.Royallcalledafterher:“Whereyougoing?”Shecouldeasilyhaveanswered:“ToOrma’s,”or“DowntotheTargatts’”;andeitheranswermighthavebeentrue,forshehadnopurpose.Butshesweptoninsilence,determinednottorecognizehisrighttoquestionher.

           Atthegateshepausedandlookedupanddowntheroad.Thedarknessdrewher,andshethoughtofclimbingthehillandplungingintothedepthsofthelarch-woodabovethepasture.Thensheglancedirresolutelyalongthestreet,andasshedidsoagleamappearedthroughthesprucesatMissHatchard’sgate.LuciusHarneywasthere,then—hehadnotgonedowntoHepburnwithMr.Miles,asshehadatfirstimagined.Butwherehadhetakenhiseveningmeal,andwhathadcausedhimtostayawayfromMr.Royall’s?Thelightwaspositiveproofofhispresence,forMissHatchard’sservantswereawayonaholiday,andherfarmer’swifecameonlyinthemornings,tomaketheyoungman’sbedandpreparehiscoffee.Besidethatlamphewasdoubtlesssittingatthismoment.ToknowthetruthCharityhadonlytowalkhalfthelengthofthevillage,andknockatthelightedwindow.Shehesitatedaminuteortwolonger,andthenturnedtowardMissHatchard’s.

           Shewalkedquickly,straininghereyestodetectanyonewhomightbecomingalongthestreet;andbeforereachingtheFrys’shecrossedovertoavoidthelightfromtheirwindow.