"It is the first of May," said Adam. "It is a year ago to-day. Shall
we pass the gateway?"
"Not now," answered Robin. "Wait till afternoon. I am so busy this
morning."
She was sitting at the table teaching half a dozen little chickens to
appreciate hard-boiled egg. The wounded kid was lying in her lap, one
arm was about it, and an adventurous kitten looked over her shoulder.
As she tapped on the board with one slender forefinger, the chickens,
hearing their mother's bill, began picking up the fragments of egg.
She had rounded out wonderfully in a year, and Adam realized for the
first time that she was a very beautiful woman.
"Suppose," she went on, "you begin your book to-day. Write your
description of a year ago. It will never be so plain again. There is
plenty of time before we go. Besides, if it is a dream, we shall want
the written record to show what dreams may come."
Adam hesitated a moment, then went to his desk. She had said truly,
the events of that day would never again be so clear, and as he began
to record them they marshaled themselves before him, until he found
himself writing with a dramatic power that fascinated and amazed him.
It must have been some time afterward that Robin stole in and set a
glass of milk, some biscuit and strawberries, down on the desk beside
him and then went out, taking the dogs with her. He did not notice
another sound until she called him to supper.
While he did the evening work Robin dressed herself in the garments
she had worn the year before. As soon as she could make others she had
put them aside, awaiting the awakening or the rescue.
The heavy cloth skirt and the silk waist were put on with a strange
reluctance. Years ago the old doctor in "The Guardian Angel" said our
china became our tombstones, but surely our garments may become the
graveyards of our emotions, and hold sharp or sweet remembrances long
after they are past wearing. In spite of some tan Robin found the face
that looked back at her from her mirror infinitely more attractive
than it had been the year before.
Adam started a little when he saw her. Then he drew her hand through
his arm, and they went to the gateway. As he opened the gate she
turned and looked back. The sun was behind the mountains, and the
shadows were long and dark. They heard the sounds of the various
creatures settling into quiet for the night, and Adam sent back all
the dogs but Lassie. They went slowly and wistfully. Robin stooped and
kissed Prince on his white forehead. As Adam closed the gate, she said
half fearfully, "Shall we ever see them again?" But he did not answer.
He took her hand and led her to the boulder.
Far as the eye could reach they saw what they expected to see. Half a
mile away the sea rolled in on a tolerably level beach; here it
thundered and roared against a sheer cliff. Among the rocks they could
see the nests of many wild-fowl, and gulls flew by them. They sat down
on the rock and waited until midnight. Then they went home. The dogs
received them obstreperously, and the kid from its corner bleated
faintly. Robin bent over it anxiously, then warmed some milk and fed
it. When Adam came in with some fresh water she was swinging slowly to
and fro in the rocker, singing softly an absurd nursery song:--
"Sleep, baby, sleep.
The stars they are the sheep;
The big moon is the shepherdess;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess.
Sleep, baby, sleep."
"It needed to be cuddled," she said in as matter-of-fact a voice as if
all lambs were sung to sleep regularly. "You know dear old Professor
Carter said there would have been no wild animals if we hadn't made
them so; but now, if you will, you can put her with Nannie."
When he came back she had gone into her room. There was nothing more
for either of them to say. There was nothing to do, except to hope for
a sail, since they no longer hoped for an awakening.