Chapter 12

           Conniewenttothewooddirectlyafterlunch.Itwasreallyalovelyday,thefirstdandelionsmakingsuns,thefirstdaisiessowhite.Thehazelthicketwasalace-work,ofhalf-openleaves,andthelastdustyperpendicularofthecatkins.Yellowcelandinesnowwereincrowds,flatopen,pressedbackinurgency,andtheyellowglitterofthemselves.Itwastheyellow,thepowerfulyellowofearlysummer.Andprimroseswerebroad,andfullofpaleabandon,thick-clusteredprimrosesnolongershy.Thelush,darkgreenofhyacinthswasasea,withbudsrisinglikepalecorn,whileintheridingtheforget-me-notswerefluffingup,andcolumbineswereunfoldingtheirink-purpleruches,andtherewerebitsofbluebird’seggshellunderabush.Everywherethebud-knotsandtheleapoflife!

           Thekeeperwasnotatthehut.Everythingwasserene,brownchickensrunninglustily.Conniewalkedontowardsthecottage,becauseshewantedtofindhim.

           Thecottagestoodinthesun,offthewood’sedge.Inthelittlegardenthedoubledaffodilsroseintufts,nearthewide-opendoor,andreddoubledaisiesmadeabordertothepath.Therewasthebarkofadog,andFlossiecamerunning.

           Thewide-opendoor!sohewasathome.Andthesunlightfallingonthered-brickfloor!Asshewentupthepath,shesawhimthroughthewindow,sittingatthetableinhisshirt-sleeves,eating.Thedogwuffedsoftly,slowlywagginghertail.

           Herose,andcametothedoor,wipinghismouthwitharedhandkerchiefstillchewing.

           ’MayIcomein?’shesaid.