THE SIXTH DAY
MISS ANN HAS "MUCH TO SAY"
On the afternoon of the sixth day, at the hour which had hitherto beenkept for the Boy, Christobel Charteris, in response to another urgentand immediate summons, went to take tea with Miss Ann.
It had been a long, dull, uneventful day, holding at first a certainamount of restless uncertainty as to whether the Boy was really gone;mingled with apprehensive anticipation of a call from the Professor.
But before noon a reply-paid telegram arrived from the Boy, sent off atCharing Cross.
"_Good morning. All's well. Just off for Folkestone. Please tell mehow you are._"
To which, while Jenkins and the telegraph-boy waited, Miss Charterisreplied:
"_Quite well, thank you. Do be careful at Folkestone._"
and afterwards thought of many other messages which she might havesent, holding more, and better expressed. But that precious moment intouch with the Boy passed so quickly; and it seemed so impossible tothink of anything but commonplace words, while Jenkins stood atattention near the table; and the telegraph-boy kept ringing hisbicycle-bell outside, as a reminder that he waited.
Yet her heart felt warmed and comforted by this momentary contact withthe Boy. He still cared to know how she was. And it was so like himto put: "All's well." He wished her to know he had not gone downbeneath his trouble. "Fanks, but I always does my own cawwying."Brave Little Boy Blue, of long ago!
The expectation of the Professor's note or call remained, keeping heranxious; until she heard from Ann Harvey, that her brother had beenobliged to go to London on business, and would not return until theevening. "Come to tea with me, dear child," the note concluded; "wehave _much_ to say!"
It seemed to Christobel that there remained nothing which Miss Ann hadnot already said, in every possible form and way. Nevertheless, sheput on her hat, and went. Miss Ann had succeeded in impressing all herfriends with the conviction that her wishes must never be thwarted.
Miss Ann had named her villa "Shiloh," undoubtedly a suitable name, sofar as she herself was concerned; her time being mostly spent upon acomfortable sofa in her tiny drawing-room; or reclining on a wickerlounge beneath the one tree in her small garden; or being carefullywheeled out in a bath-chair.
But nobody else found Miss Ann's villa in any sense a "resting-place."She had a way of keeping everybody about her--from jaded Emma to themost casual caller--on the move, while she herself presented a delicatepicture of frail inactivity. Immediately upon their arrival, herfriends found an appointed task awaiting them; but it was alwayssomething which Miss Ann would have given to somebody else to do, hadthey not chanced at that moment to appear; and they were usually leftwith the feeling that the particular somebody else--whose _privilege_they, in their well-meant zeal, had usurped--would have accomplished itbetter.
Directing them from the sofa, Miss Ann kept her entourage busy andperpetually on the move. Yet she never felt she was asking much ofthem; nor, however weary at the conclusion of the task, did they everfeel much had been accomplished, owing to the judicious use of the word"just."
"My dear," Miss Ann would say, "as you _are_ here, will you _just_clean the canary?" Cleaning the canary meant a very thorough turningout of an intricate little brass cage; several journeys up and downstairs in quest of sand, seed, and brass polish, and an out-doorexcursion to a neighbour's garden for groundsel. The canary's name was"Sweetie-weet," and, however much annoyed Miss Ann's friends might befeeling with the canary, they had to call him "Sweetie-weet" all thetime they "cleaned him," lest his flutterings should upset Miss Ann.Now you cannot say "Sweetie-weet" in an angry voice. Try, and you willsee. Consequently Miss Ann's friends had no vent for their feelingsduring the process of getting a rather large hand in and out of a verysmall brass door with a spring, which always snapped to, at the wrongmoment, while the hand, which seemed to its possessor larger than ithad ever seemed before, was crooked round in an impossible position ina strained attempt to fix Sweetie-weet's perches. If anything wentwrong during the cleaning process, Miss Ann, from her vantage-ground onthe sofa would sigh, and exclaim: "Poor patient little Sweetie-weet!"Miss Ann was in full possession of all her faculties. Her hearing waspreternaturally sharp. It was no use saying "Fiend!" to Sweetie-weet,in an emphatic whisper. He fluttered the more.
When the task was completed, the cage had to be brought to Miss Ann'scouch for inspection. She then usually discovered the perches to havebeen put back before they were perfectly dry. Now _nothing_--as surelyyou hardly ought to require to be told--was so prejudicial toSweetie-weet's delicate constitution as to have _damp_ wood beneath his_precious_ little feet. Consequently all the perches had _just_ to betaken out again, dried before the kitchen fire, and put back once more.When this mandate went forth, the glee in the bright black eyes inSweetie-weet's yellow head was unmistakable. He shared Miss Ann'smania for keeping people busy.
When, at last, the second installation of perches was over, and thecage was suspended from the brass chain in the sunny window,Sweetie-weet poured forth a shrill crescendo of ear-piercingsarcasm--"a little song of praise" Miss Ann called it--directed full atthe hot and exhausted friend, who was applying a pocket-handkerchief tothe wire scratches on the back of her hand, and trying to smile at MissAnn's recital of all Emma would say, when she found that her specialprivilege and delight--the cleaning of Sweetie-weet--had been wrestedfrom her by the over-zealous friend. As a matter of fact, jaded Emma'spersonal remarks about Sweetie-weet, during the perch-drying process inthe kitchen, had been of a nature which would not bear repeating inSweetie-weet's presence, and had provided the only amusement the friendhad got out of the whole performance.
When Christobel Charteris arrived at Shiloh, she found Miss Ann on thegreen velvet sofa, looking very frail and ethereal; a Shetland shawlabout her shoulders, fastened by the largest and most mysterious of herhair-brooches--a gold-mounted oval brooch, in which a weeping willow offair hair drooped over a sarcophagus of dark hair; while a crescentmoon of grey hair kept watch over both. This funereal collection offamily hair always possessed a weird fascination for small children,brought by their parents to call upon Miss Ann. The mostundemonstrative became affectionate, and hastened with ready docilityto the sofa to kiss Miss Ann, in order to obtain a closer view, and tosettle the much disputed point as to the significance of a small roundobject in the left-hand corner at the bottom. In fact, to theundisguised dismay of his mother, a sturdy youngster once emerged fromMiss Ann's embrace, exclaiming eagerly to his little sister: "It's afurze-bush, _not_ a hedgehog!" An unfortunate remark, which might havebeen taken by Miss Ann to refer to even more personal matters than adetail in her brooch.
Christobel herself was not altogether free from the spell of thishirsute cemetery; chiefly because she knew it was worn on days whendeep emotion was to be felt and expressed. At sight of it, she wasquite prepared for the tearful smile with which Miss Ann signed to herto close the door. Then extending her arms, "Sweet sister," she said,with emotion, "let me take you to my heart."
It was somewhat startling to Christobel to be apostrophized as "sister"by Miss Ann. The Boy had made her feel so young, and so completely hiscontemporary, that if Miss Ann had called her "daughter," or even"granddaughter," it would have seemed more appropriate. Also hermagnificent proportions constituted a somewhat large order for MissAnn's proposed embrace.
However, she knelt beside the sofa, and allowed herself to be taken toMiss Ann's heart in sections. Then, having found and restored MissAnn's lace pocket-handkerchief, she seated herself in a low chairbeside the couch, hoping for enlightenment upon the immediate prospectsof her own future.
Miss Ann wept gently for a while. Christobel sat silent. Her recentexperience of tears, wrung from such deep anguish of soul, made it lesseasy for her to feel sympathetic towards tears which flowed from noapparent cause, and fell delicately into perfumed lace. So she waitedin silence, while Miss Ann wept.
The room was very sti
ll. The bang with which the Boy usually made hisentry anywhere, would have been terrific in its joyful suddenness. Atthe mere thought of it, Christobel's heart stood still and listened.But this was a place into which the Boy would never make an entry,noisy or otherwise. Besides--the Boy was gone. Oh, silent, sober,sorry world! The Boy was gone.
Sweetie-weet put his head on one side, and chirped interrogatively. Inhis judgment, the silence had lasted sufficiently long.
Miss Ann dried her eyes, making an effort to control her emotion. Thenshe spoke, in a voice which still trembled.
"Dearest child," she said, "I want you _just_ to cover this book forme. Emma has offered to do it, several times, but I said: 'No, Emma.We must keep it for Miss Christobel. I do not know _what_ she wouldsay to you, if you took to covering my books!' Emma is a good soul,and willing; but has not the _mind_ and _method_ required to cover abook properly. If you will _just_ run up to my room, dear child, youwill find a neat piece of whity-brown paper laid aside on purpose....Hush, Sweetie-weet! Christobel knows you are pleased to see her....It is either on the ottoman behind the screen, or in the top left-handdrawer of the mahogany chest, between the window and the fireplace.Ah, how much we have come through, during the last twenty-four hours!The scissors, dear Love, are hanging by black tape from a nail in thestore-room. You require a large and _common_ pair for cutting brownpaper. How truly wonderful are the ways of Providence, dearChristobel! The paste is in the little cupboard under the stairs."
When Miss Charteris had finished covering the book, having bent upon itall the _mind_ and _method_ it required, she forestalled the setting ofanother task, by saying firmly: "I want an important talk now, please.Ann, are you sure you told your brother that I had cared for him foryears?"
"Darling, dear Kenrick was so _diffident_; so unable to realize his ownpowers of _attraction_; so----"
"Do you think it was fair toward a woman, even if it were true, to tella man who had never asked her love, that that love has long been his?"
"Sweet child, how crudely you put it! I merely _hinted, whispered_;gave the most _delicate_ indications of what I knew to be your feeling.For you _do_ love my brother; do you not, dear Christobel?"
"I think," said Miss Charteris, slowly, weighing each word; "I think Ilove the Professor as a woman loves a book."
There was a moment of tense silence in Miss Ann's drawing-room.Christobel Charteris looked straight before her, a stern light upon herface, as of one confronted on the path of duty by the clear shining ofthe mirror of self-revelation.
Into Miss Ann's pale blue eyes shot a gleam of nervous anxiety.
Sweetie-weet chirped, interrogatively.
Then Miss Ann, recovering, clasped her hands. "Ah, what a beautifuldefinition!" she said. "What _could_ be more pure, more perfect?"
Miss Charteris knew a love of a very different kind, which wasabsolutely pure, and altogether perfect. But that was the love she hadput from her.
"A woman could hardly marry a book," she said.
Miss Ann gave a little deprecatory shriek. "Darling child!" she cried."_No_ simile, however beautiful, should be pressed too far! Yourexquisite description of your love for dear Kenrick merely assures usthat your union with him will prove one of complete contentment to themind. And the _mind_--that sensitive instrument, attuned to all theimmensities of the intellectual spheres--the _mind_ is what reallymatters."
"Bodies count," said Miss Charteris, with conviction; adding beneathher breath, the dawning of a smile in her sad eyes: "We shall jollywell find, bodies count."
Miss Ann's hearing, as we have already remarked, was preternaturallysharp. She started. "My dear Christobel, what an expression! And doyou not think, that, under these circumstances, any mention of bodiessavours of impropriety?"
Miss Charteris turned quickly. The colour flamed into her beautifulface. The glint of angry indignation flashed from her eyes. But theelderly figure on the couch looked so small and frail. To wound andcrush it would be so easy; and so unworthy of her strength, and widerexperience.
Suddenly she remembered a little blue back, round with grief and shame;a small sandy face, silent and unflinching; a brave little heart whichkept its faith in God, and prayed on trustfully, while nursesmisunderstood and bullied. Then Miss Charteris conquered her own wrath.
"Dear Ann," she said, gently, "do you really believe your brother wouldbe much disappointed if--after all--when he asks me to marry him--whichhe has not done yet--I feel it better not to do so?"
"My _darling_ child!" exclaimed Miss Ann, and her hair-brooch flewopen, as if to accentuate her horror and amazement. "My _darling_child! Think how patiently he has waited! Remember the long years!Remember----"
"Yes, I know," said Miss Charteris. "You told me all that last night,didn't you? But it seems to me that, if a man can wait twelve years,he might as well wait twenty."
"So he would have!" cried Miss Ann. "_Undoubtedly_ dear Kenrick wouldhave waited _twenty years_, had it not been for this fortunate legacy,which places him in a position to marry at once. But why should youwish to keep him waiting any longer? Is not twelve years sufficientlylong?"
Miss Charteris smiled. "Twelve days would be too long for somepeople," she said, gently. "I have no wish to keep him waiting. Butyou must remember, Ann, the Professor has, as yet, spoken no word oflove to me."
"Dear child," said Miss Ann, eagerly; "he would have come to youto-day, but imperative legal business, connected with our uncle's will,took him to town. I know for certain that he intends writing to youthis evening; and, if you then give him leave to do so, he will callupon you to-morrow. Oh, _darling_ girl, you will not disappoint us?We have so trusted you; so _believed_ in you! A less scrupulouslyhonourable man than Kenrick, might have tried to bind you by a promise,before he was in a position to offer you immediate marriage. Think ofall the hopes--the hopes and p-_plans_, which depend upon yourfaithfulness!" Miss Ann dissolved into tears--but not to a degreewhich should hinder her flow of eloquence. "Ah, sweetest child! Youknelt beside this _very_ sofa, five years ago, and you said: 'Ann, Ithink _any_ woman might be proud to become the wife of the Professor!'Have you forgotten that you said that, kneeling beside this _very_sofa?"
"I have not forgotten," said Miss Charteris; "and I think so still."
"Then you _will_ marry Kenrick?" said Miss Ann, through her tears.
Christobel Charteris rose. She stood, for a moment, tall andimmovable, in the small, low room, crowded with knick-knacks--china,bric-a-brac, ferns in painted pots, embroidery, photographframes--overseated with easy chairs, which, in their turn, wereoverfilled with a varied assortment of cushions. Miss Ann'sdrawing-room gave the effect of a rather prettily arranged bazaar. Youmentally pictured yourself walking round, admiring everything, butseeing nothing you liked quite well enough to wish to buy it, and takeit home.
Christobel Charteris, tall and stately, in her simple white gown,looked so utterly apart from the trumpery elegance of thesesurroundings. As the Boy had said, the mellow beauty of his ancestralhomes would indeed be a fit setting for her stately grace. But she hadsent away the Boy, with his beautiful castles in the air, and places inthe shires. The atmosphere and surroundings of Shiloh were those towhich she must be willing to bend her fastidious taste. Miss Ann wouldexpect to make her home with the Professor.
"Then you _will_ marry Kenrick?" whispered Miss Ann, through her lacepocket-handkerchief.
Christobel bent over her, tenderly; fastening the clasp of themysterious hair-brooch.
"Dear Ann," she said. "It will not be leap year again, until 1912.And, meanwhile, the Professor has not proposed marriage to me."
Miss Ann instantly brightened. Laughing gaily, she wiped away a fewremaining tears.
"Ah, naughty!" she said. "Naughty, to make me tell! But as you _will_ask--_he is going to write to-night_. But you must never let him knowI told you! And now I want you just to find the _Spectator_--it islaid over that exquisitely embroidered blot
ter on the writing-table inthe window, sent me last Christmas by that kind creature, LadyGoldsmith; so thoughtful, tasteful, and _quite_ touching; Emma, carefulsoul, spread it over the blotter, while darling Sweetie-weetie took hisbath. Dear pet, it is a sight to see him splash and splutter. LadyGoldsmith thinks so much of dear Kenrick. The first time she saw him,she was _immensely_ struck by his extraordinarily clever _appearance_.He sat exactly opposite her at a Guildhall banquet; and she told meafterwards that the mere sight of him was sufficient to take away allinclination for food; excepting for that intellectual nourishment whichhe is so well able to supply. I thought that was rather wellexpressed, and, coming from a _florid_ woman, such as Lady Goldsmith,was quite a tribute to my brother. You _would_ call Lady Goldsmith'florid,' would you not, dear Christobel? ... Oh, you do not know herby sight? I am surprised. As the _wife_ of the _Professor_, you willsoon know all these distinguished people by sight. Yes, she isundoubtedly florid; and inclined to be what my dear father used to call'a woman of a stout habit.' This being the case, it was certainly a_tribute_--a tribute of which you and I, dearest child, have a right tofeel justly proud.... Oh, is it still damp? Naughty Sweetie-weet!Don't you think it might be wise, _just_ to take it to the kitchen.Emma, good soul, will let you dry it before the fire. I _have_ heardof fatalities caused by damp newspapers. Precious _child_, we can haveyou run no risks! What would _Kenrick_ say? But when it is_absolutely_ dry, I want you just to explain to me the _gist_ of thatarticle on the effect of oriental literature on modern thought.Kenrick tells me you have read it. He wishes to discuss it with me. Ireally cannot undertake to read it through. I have not the _time_required. Yet I must be prepared to talk it over intelligently with mybrother, when next he pays me a visit. He may look in this evening,weary with his day in town, and requiring the relaxation of a littleintellectual conversation. I must be ready."
* * * * *
An hour later, somewhat tired in body, and completely exhausted inmind, Miss Charteris walked home. She made a detour, in order to passalong the lane, and enter through the postern gate at the bottom of thegarden.
She opened it, and passed in.
A shaft of sunlight lay along the lawn. The jolly little "whatd'-you-call-'ems" lifted gay purple faces to the sky.
She paused in the doorway, trying to realize how this quiet greenseclusion, the old-fashioned flower-borders, the spreadingmulberry-tree, the quaint white house, in the distance, with its greenshutters, must have looked to the Boy each day, as he came in. Sheknew he had more eye for colour, and more knowledge of artistic effect,than his casual acquaintances might suppose. It would not surprise hersome day to find, as one of the gems of the New Gallery, a reproductionof her own garden, with a halo of jolly little "what-d'-you-call-'ems"in the borders, and an indication of seats, deep in the shadow of themulberry-tree. She would not need to refer to the catalogue for theartist's name. The Boy had had a painting in the Academy the yearbefore. She had chanced to see it. Noticing the name of her LittleBoy Blue of the Dovercourt sands in the catalogue, she had made her waythrough the crowded rooms, and found his picture. It hung on the line.She had been struck by its thoughtful beauty, and wealth of imaginativeskill. She had not forgotten that picture; and during all these daysshe had been quietly waiting to hear the Boy say he had had a paintingin the Academy. Then she was going to tell him she had seen it, hadgreatly admired it, and had noted with pleasure all the kind thingscritics had said of it.
But, the subject of pictures not having come up, it had not occurred tothe Boy to mention it. The Boy never talked of what he had done,_because_ he had done it. But were a subject mentioned upon which hewas keen, he would bound up, with shining eyes, and tell you all heknew about it; all he had seen, heard, and done; all he was doing, andall he hoped to do in the future, in connexion with that particularthing. He would never have thought of informing you that he ownedthree aeroplanes. But if the subject of aviation came up, and you saidto the Boy: "Do you know anything about it?" he would lean forward,beaming at you, and say: "I should jolly well think I do!" and talkaeroplanes to you for as long as you were willing to listen. Thistrait of the Boy's, caused shallow-minded people to consider himconceited. But the woman he loved knew how to distinguish betweenkeenness and conceit; between exuberant enthusiasm and egotisticalself-assertion; and the woman who loved him, smiled tenderly as sheremembered that even on the day when she scolded him, and he had toadmit his "barely respectable B.A.," he had not told her of thepainting hung on the line and mentioned in the _Times_. Yet if thequestion of art had come up, the Boy would very probably have satforward in his chair, and talked about his painting, straight on end,for half an hour.
She still stood beneath the archway, in the red-brick wall, as thesethoughts chased quickly through her mind. She would have made a fairpicture for any one who had chanced to be waiting beneath themulberry-tree, with eyes upon the gate.
"Straight on end for half an hour, he would have talked about hispicture; and how bright his eyes would have been. And then I shouldhave said: 'I saw it, Boy dear; and it was quite as beautiful as yousay.' And he would have answered: 'It jolly well gave you the feelingof the scene, didn't it, Christo_bel_?' And I should have known thathis delight in it, as an artistic success, had nothing to do with thefact that it was painted by himself. Just because egotism isimpossible to him, he is free to be so full of vivid enthusiasm."
She smiled again. A warm glow seemed to enfold her. "How well I knowmy Boy!" she said aloud; then remembered with a sudden pang that shemust not call him _her_ Boy. She had let him go. She was--veryprobably--going to marry the Professor. She had not--with the whole ofher being--wanted him to stay, until he had had the manliness to riseup and go. Then--it had been too late. Ah, was it too late? If theBoy came back to plead once more? If once again she could hear himsay: "Age is nothing! Time is nothing! Love is all!" would she notanswer: "Yes, Guy. Love _is_ all"?
The blood rushed into her sweet proud face. The name of the man sheloved had come into her mind unconsciously. It had never yet--as aname for him--passed her lips. That she should unconsciously call himso in her heart, gave her another swift moment of self-revelation.
She closed the gate gently, careful not to let it bang. As she passedup the lawn, her heart stood still. It seemed to her that he must bewaiting, in the shade of the mulberry-tree.
She hardly dared to look. She felt so sure he was there.... Yes, sheknew he was there.... She felt certain the Boy had come back. Hecould not stay away from her on his sixth day. Had he not said hewould "march round" every day? Ah, dear waiting army of Israel! Herewas Jericho hastening to meet it. Why had she allowed Ann Harvey tokeep her so late? Why had she gone at all, during the Boy's own time?She might have known he would come.... Should she walk past themulberry, as if making for the house, just for the joy of hearing himcall "Christo_bel_"? No, that would not be quite honest, knowing hewas there; and they were always absolutely honest with one another.
She passed, breathlessly, under the drooping branches. Her cheeksglowed; her lips were parted. Her eyes shone with love and expectation.
She lifted a hanging bough, and passed beneath.
His chair was there, and hers; but they were empty. The Boy--being theBoy--had not come back.
* * * * *
Presently she went slowly up to the house.
A telegram lay on the hall table. She knew at once from whom it came.There was but one person who carried on a correspondence by telegraph._Reply paid_ was written on the envelope.
She stood quite still for a moment. Then she opened it slowly.Telegrams from the Boy gave her a delicious memory of the way he usedto jump about. He would be out of his chair, and sitting at her feet,before she knew he was going to move.
She opened it slowly, turned to a window, and read it.
"_How are you, dear? Please tell me. I am going to do my big flyto-morrow. I j
olly well mean to break the record. Wish me luck._"
She took up the reply-paid form and wrote:
"_Quite well. Good luck; but please be careful, Little Boy Blue._"
She hesitated a moment, before writing the playful name by which she sooften called him. But his telegram was so absolutely the Boy, allover. It was best he should know nothing of "the man she loved," whohad gone out at the gate. It was best he should not know what shewould have called him, had he been under the mulberry just now. Shewas--undoubtedly--going to marry the Professor. In which case shewould never call the Boy anything but "Little Boy Blue." So she put itinto her telegram, as a repartee to his audacious "dear." Then shewent out, and sent it off herself. It was comforting to havesomething, however small, to do for him.
She came in again; dressed for the evening, and dined. She wasthoroughly tired; and one sentence beat itself incessantly against themirror of her reflection, like a frightened bird with a broken wing:"_He is going to do a big fly to-morrow.... He is going to do a bigfly to-morrow! Little Boy Blue is going to fly and break the record._"
She sat in the stillness of her drawing-room, and tried to read. Butbetween her eyes and the printed page, burned in letters of fire: "_Heis going to fly to-morrow._"
She went down the garden to the chairs beneath the mulberry-tree. Itwas cooler there; but the loneliness was too fierce an agony.
She walked up and down the lawn, now bathed in silvery moonlight. "_Heis going to do a big fly to-morrow. He jolly well means to break therecord._"
She passed in, and went to her bedroom. She lay in the darkness andtried to sleep. She tried in vain. What if he got intocross-currents? What if the propeller broke? What if thesteering-gear twisted? She began remembering every detail he had toldherself and Mollie; when she sat listening, thinking of him as Mollie'slover, though all the while he had been her--Little Boy Blue.... "_Ohof course then it is all U P.--But there must be pioneers!_"
At last she could bear it no longer. She lighted her candle, and rose.She went to her medicine cupboard, and did a thing she had never donebefore, in the whole of her healthy life. She took a sleeping draught.The draught was one of Miss Ann's; left behind at the close of a recentvisit. She knew it contained chiefly bromide; harmless but effective.
She put out the light, and lay once more in darkness.
The bromide began to act.
The bird with the broken wing became less insistent.
The absent Boy drew near, and bent over, kneeling beside her.
She talked to him softly. Her voice sounded far away, and unlike herown. "Be careful, Little Boy Blue," she said. "You may jollywell--what an expression!--break the record if you like; but don'tbreak yourself; because, if you do, you will break my heart."
The bromide was acting strongly now. The bird with the broken wing hadgone. There was a strange rhythmical throbbing in her ears. It wasthe Boy's aeroplane; but it had started without him. She knew sleepwas coming; merciful oblivion. Yet now she was too happy to wish tosleep.
The Boy drew nearer.
"Oh, Boy dear, I love you so," she whispered into the throbbingdarkness; "I love you so."
"I know you do, dear," said the Boy. "It is almost unbelievable,Christobel; but I know you do."
Then she put up her arms, and drew him to her breast.
Thus the Boy--though far away--marched round.
* * * * *
"_And the evening and the morning were the sixth day._"
* * * * *
Through the Postern Gate: A Romance in Seven Days Page 6
