The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. But luncheon and dinners you will sit at my table. She cocked her head. They began to wrestle fiercely. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back.
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