BARBARA FLINT
I
Barbara Flint was a little girl, aged seven, who lived with her parents
at No. 36 March Square. Her brother and sister, Master Anthony and Miss
Misabel Flint, were years and years older, so you must understand that
she led rather a solitary life. She was a child with very pale flaxen
hair, very pale blue eyes, very pale cheeks--she looked like a china
doll who had been left by a careless mistress out in the rain. She was a
very sensitive child, cried at the least provocation, very affectionate,
too, and ready to imagine that people didn't like her.
Mr. Flint was a stout, elderly gentleman, whose favourite pursuit was to
read the newspapers in his club, and to inveigh against the Liberals. He
was pale and pasty, and suffered from indigestion. Mrs. Flint was tall,
thin and severe, and a great helper at St. Matthew's, the church round
the corner. She gave up all her time to church work and the care of the
poor, and it wasn't her fault that the poor hated her. Between the
Scylla of politics and the Charybdis of religion there was very little
left for poor Barbara; she faded away under the care of an elderly
governess who suffered from a perfect cascade of ill-fated love affairs;
it seemed that gentlemen were always "playing with her feelings." But in
all probability a too vivid imagination led her astray in this matter;
at any rate, she cried so often during Barbara's lessons that the title
of the lesson-book, "Reading without Tears," was sadly belied. It might
be expected that, under these unfavourable circumstances, Barbara was
growing into a depressed and melancholy childhood.
Barbara, happily, was saved by her imagination. Surely nothing quite
like Barbara's imagination had ever been seen before, because it came to
her, outside inheritance, outside environment, outside observation. She
had it altogether, in spite of Flints past and present. But, perhaps,
not altogether in spite of March Square. It would be difficult to say
how deeply the fountain, the almond tree, the green, flat shining grass
had stung her intuition; but stung it only, not created it--the thing
was there from the beginning of all time. She talked, at first to
nurses, servants, her mother, about the things that she knew; about her
Friend who often came to see her, who was there so many times--there in
the room with her when they couldn't catch a glimpse of him; about the
days and nights when she was away anywhere, up in the sky, out on the
air, deep in the sea, about all the other experiences that she
remembered but was now rapidly losing consciousness of. She talked, at
first easily, naturally, and inviting, as it were, return confidences.
Then, quite suddenly, she realised that she simply wasn't believed, that
she was considered a wicked little girl "for making things up so," that
there was no hope at all for her unless she abandoned her "lying ways."
The shock of this discovery flung her straight back upon herself; if
they refused to believe these things, then there was nothing to be done.
But for herself their incredulity should not stop her. She became a very
quiet little girl--what her nurse called "brooding." This incredulity
of theirs drove them all instantly into a hostile camp, and the
affection that she had been longing to lavish upon them must now be
reserved for other, and, she could not help feeling, wiser persons. This
division of herself from the immediate world hurt her very much. From a
very early age, indeed, we need reassurance as to the necessity for our
existence. Barbara simply did not seem to be wanted.
But still worse: now that her belief in certain things had been
challenged, she herself began to question them. Was it true, possibly,
when a flaming sunset struck a sword across the Square and caught the
fountain, slashing it into a million glittering fragments, that that was
all that occurred? Such a thing had been for Barbara simply a door into
her earlier world. See the fountain--well, you have been tested; you are
still simple enough to go back into the real world. But was Barbara
simple enough? She was seven; it is just about then that we begin, under
the guard of nurses carefully chosen for us by our parents, to drop our
simplicity. It must, of course, be so, or the world would be all
dreamers, and then there would be no commerce.
Barbara knew nothing of commerce, but she did know that she was
unhappy, that her dolls gave her no happiness, and that her Friend did
not come now so often to see her. She was, I am afraid, in character a
"Hopper." She must be affectionate, she must demand affection of others,
and will they not give it her, then must they simulate it. The tragedy
of it all was perhaps, that Barbara had not herself that coloured
vitality in her that would prepare other people to be fond of her. The
world is divided between those who place affection about, now here, now
there, and those whose souls lie, like drawers, unawares, but ready for
the affection to be laid there.
Barbara could not "place" it about; she had neither optimism nor a sense
of humour sufficient. But she wanted it--wanted it terribly. If she were
not to be allowed to indulge her imagination, then must she, all the
more, love some one with fervour: the two things were interdependent.
She surveyed her world with an eye to this possible loving. There was
her governess, who had been with her for a year now, tearful, bony,
using Barbara as a means and never as an end. Barbara did not love
her--how could she? Moreover, there were other physical things: the
lean, shining marble of Miss Letts's long fingers, the dry thinness of
her hair, the way that the tip of her nose would be suddenly red, and
then, like a blown-out candle, dull white again. Fingers and noses are
not the only agents in the human affections, but they have most
certainly something to do with them. Moreover, Miss Letts was too busily
engaged with the survey of her relations, with now this gentleman, now
that, to pay much attention to Barbara. She dismissed her as "a queer
little thing." There were in Miss Letts's world "queer things" and
"things not queer." The division was patent to anybody.
Barbara's father and mother were also surveyed. Here Barbara was baffled
by the determination on the part of both of them that she should talk,
should think, should dream about all the things concerning which she
could not talk, think nor dream. "How to grow up into a nice little
girl," "How to pray to God," "How never to tell lies," "How to keep
one's clothes clean,"--these things did not interest Barbara in the
least; but had she been given love with them she might have paid some
attention. But a too rigidly defined politics, a too rigidly defined
religion find love a poor, loose, sentimental thing--very rightly so,
perhaps. Mrs. Flint was afraid that Barbara was a "silly little girl."
"I hope, Miss Letts, that she no longer talks about her silly fancies."
"She has said nothing to me in that respect for a considerable period,
Mrs. Flint."
"All very young children have fancies, but such things are dangerous
when they grow older."
"I agree with you."
Nevertheless the fountain continued to flash in the sun, and births,
deaths, weddings, love and hate continued to play their part in March
Square.
II
Barbara, groping about in the desolation of having no one to grope with
her, discovered that her Friend came now less frequently to see her. She
was even beginning to wonder whether he had ever really come at all. She
had perhaps imagined him just as on occasion she would imagine her doll,
Jane, the Queen of England, or her afternoon tea the most wonderful
meal, with sausages, blackberry jam and chocolates. Young though, she
was, she was able to realise that this imagination of hers was _capable
de tout_, and that every one older than herself said that it was wicked;
therefore was her Friend, perhaps, wicked also.
And yet, if the dark curtains that veiled the nursery windows at night,
if the glimmering shape of the picture-frames, if the square black sides
of the dolls' house were real, real also was the figure of her Friend,
real his arousal in her of all the memories of the old days before she
was Barbara Flint at all--real, too, his love, his care, his protection;
as real, yes, as Miss Letts's bony figure. It was all very puzzling. But
he did not come now as in the old days.
Barbara played very often in the gardens in the middle of the Square,
but because she was a timid little girl she did not make many friends.
She knew many of the other children who played there, and sometimes she
shared in their games; but her sensitive feelings were so easily hurt,
she frequently retired in tears. Every day on going into the garden she
looked about her, hoping that she would find before she left it again
some one whom it would be possible to worship. She tried on several
occasions to erect altars, but our English temperament is against
public display, and she was misunderstood.
Then, quite suddenly, as though she had sprung out of the fountain, Mary
Adams was there. Mary Adams was aged nine, and her difference from
Barbara Flint was that, whereas Barbara craved for affection, she craved
for attention: the two demands can be easily confused. Mary Adams was
the only child of an aged philosopher, Mr. Adams, who, contrary to all
that philosophy teaches, had married a young wife. The young wife,
pleased that Mary was so unlike her father, made much of her, and Mary
was delighted to be made much of. She was a little girl with flaxen
hair, blue eyes, and a fine pink-and-white colouring. In a few years'
time she will be so sure of the attention that her appearance is winning
for her that she will make no effort to secure adherents, but just now
she is not sufficiently confident--she must take trouble. She took
trouble with Barbara.
Sitting neatly upon a seat, Mary watched rude little boys throw sidelong
glances in her direction. Her long black legs were quivering with the
perception of their interest, even though her eyes were haughtily
indifferent. It was then that Barbara, with Miss Letts, an absent-minded
companion, came and sat by her side. Barbara and Mary had met at a
party--not quite on equal terms, because nine to seven is as sixty to
thirty--but they had played hide-and-seek together, and had, by chance,
hidden in the same cupboard.
The little boys had moved away, and Mary Adams's legs dropped, suddenly,
their tension.
"I'm going to a party to-night," Mary said, with a studied indifference.
Miss Letts knew of Mary's parents, and that, socially, they were "all
right"--a little more "all right," were we to be honest, than Mr. and
Mrs. Flint. She said, therefore:
"Are you, dear? That will be nice for you."
Instantly Barbara was trembling with excitement. She knew that the
remark had been made to her and not at all to Miss Letts. Barbara
entered once again, and instantly, upon the field of the passions. Here
she was fated by her temperament to be in all cases a miserable victim,
because panic, whether she were accepted or rejected by the object of
her devotion, reduced her to incoherent foolishness; she could only be
foolish now, and, although her heart beat like a leaping animal inside
her, allowed Miss Letts to carry on the conversation.
But Miss Letts's wandering eye hurt Mary's pride. She was not really
interested in her, and once Mary had come to that conclusion about any
one, complete, utter oblivion enveloped them. She perceived, however,
Barbara's agitation, and at that, flattered and appeased, she was
amiable again. There followed between the two a strangled and
disconnected conversation.
Mary began:
"I've got four dolls at home."
"Have you?" breathlessly from Barbara. By such slow accuracies as these
are we conveyed, all our poor mortal days, from realism to romance, and
with a shocking precipitance are we afterwards flung back, out of
romance into realism, our natural home, again.
"Yes--four dolls I have. My mother will give me another if I ask her.
Would your mother?"
"Yes," said Barbara, untruthfully.
"That's my governess, Miss Marsh, there, with the green hat, that is.
I've had her two months."
"Yes," said Barbara, gazing with adoring eyes.
"She's going away next week. There's another coming. I can do sums, can
you?"
"Yes," again from Barbara.
"I can do up to twice-sixty-three. I'm nine. Miss Marsh says I'm
clever."
"I'm seven," said Barbara.
"I could read when I was seven--long, long words. Can you read?"
At this moment there arrived the green-hatted Miss Marsh, a plump,
optimistic person, to whom Miss Letts was gloomily patronising. Miss
Letts always distrusted stoutness in another; it looked like deliberate
insult. Mary Adams was conveyed away; Barbara was bereft of her glory.
But, rather, on that instant that Mary Adams vanished did she become
glorified. Barbara had been too absurdly agitated to transform on to the
mirror of her brain Mary's appearance. In all the dim-coloured splendour
of flame and mist was Mary now enwrapped, with every step that Barbara
took towards her home did the splendour grow.
III
Then followed an invitation to tea from Mary's mother. Barbara,
preparing for the event, suffered her hair to be brushed, choked with
strange half-sweet, half-terrible suffocation that comes from
anticipated glories: half-sweet because things will, at their worst, be
wonderful; half-terrible because we know that they will not be so good
as we hope.
Barbara, washed paler than ever, in a white frock with pink bows, was
conducted by Miss Letts. She choked with terror in the strange hall,
where she was received with great splendour by Mary. The schoolroom was
large and fine and bright, finer far than Barbara's room, swamped by the
waters of religion and politics. Barbara could only gulp and gulp, and
feel still at her throat that half-sweet, half-terrible suffocation.
Within her little body her heart, so huge and violent, was pounding.
"A very nice room indeed," said Miss Letts, more friendly now to the
optimist because she was leaving in a day or two, and could not,
therefore, at the moment be considered a success. Her failure balanced
her plumpness.
Here, at any rate, was the beginning of a great friendship between
Barbara Flint and Mary Adams. The character of Mary Adams was admittedly
a difficult one to explore; her mother, a cloud of nurses and a company
of governesses had been baffled completely by its dark caverns and
recesses. One clue, beyond question, was selfishness; but this quality,
by the very obviousness of it, may tempt us to believe that that is all.
It may account, when we are displeased, for so much. It accounted for a
great deal with Mary--but not all. She had, I believe, a quite genuine
affection for Barbara, nothing very disturbing, that could rival the
question as to whether she would receive a second helping of pudding or
no, or whether she looked better in blue or pink. Nevertheless, the
affection was there. During several months she considered Barbara more
than she had ever considered any one in her life before. At that first
tea party she was aware, perhaps, that Barbara's proffered devotion was
for complete and absolute self-sacrifice, something that her vanity
would not often find to feed it. There was, too, no question of
comparison between them.
Even when Barbara grew to be nine she would be a poor thing beside the
lusty self-confidence of Mary Adams--and this was quite as it should be.
All that Barbara wanted was some one upon whom she might pour her
devotion, and one of the things that Mary wanted was some one who would
spend it upon her. But there stirred, nevertheless, some breath of
emotion across that stagnant little pool, Mary's heart. She was moved,
perhaps, by pity for Barbara's amazing simplicities, moved also by
curiosity as to how far Barbara's devotion to her would go, moved even
by some sense of distrust of her own self-satisfaction. She did, indeed,
admire any one who could realise, as completely as did Barbara, the
greatness of Mary Adams.
It may seem strange to us, and almost terrible, that a small child of
seven can feel anything as devastating as this passion of Barbara. But
Barbara was made to be swept by storms stronger than she could control,
and Mary Adams was the first storm of her life. They spent now a great
deal of their time together. Mrs. Adams, who was beginning to find Mary
more than she could control, hailed the gentle Barbara with joy; she
welcomed also perhaps a certain note of rather haughty protection which
Mary seemed to be developing.
During the hours when Barbara was alone she thought of the many things
that she would say to her friend when they met, and then at the meeting
could say nothing. Mary talked or she did not talk according to her
mood, but she soon made it very plain that there was only one way of
looking at everything inside and outside the earth, and that was Mary's
way. Barbara had no affection, but a certain blind terror for God. It
was precisely as though some one were standing with a hammer behind a
tree, and were waiting to hit you on the back of your head at the first
opportunity. But God was not, on the whole, of much importance; her
Friend was the great problem, and before many days were passed Mary was
told all about him.
"He used to come often and often. He'd be there just where you wanted
him--when the light was out or anything. And he _was_ nice." Barbara
sighed.
Mary stared at her, seeming in the first full sweep of confidence, to be
almost alarmed.
"You don't mean----?" She stopped, then cried, "Why, you silly, you
believe in ghosts!"
"No, I don't," said Barbara, not far from tears.
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Of course you do, you silly."
"No, I don't. He--he's real."
"Well," Mary said, with a final toss of the head, "if you go seeing
ghosts like that you can't have me for your friend, Barbara Flint--you
can choose, that's all."
Barbara was aghast. Such a catastrophe had never been contemplated. Lose
Mary? Sooner life itself. She resolved, sorrowfully, to say no more
about her Friend. But here occurred a strange thing. It was as though
Mary felt that over this one matter Barbara had eluded her; she returned
to it again and again, always with contemptuous but inquisitive
allusion.
"Did he come last night, Barbara?"
"No."
"P'r'aps he did, only you were asleep."
"No, he didn't."
"You don't believe he'll come ever any more, do you? Now that I've said
he isn't there really?"
"Yes, I do."
"Very well, then, I won't see you to-morrow--not at all--not all day--I
won't."
These crises tore Barbara's spirit. Seven is not an age that can reason
with life's difficulties, and Barbara had, in this business, no
reasoning powers at all. She would die for Mary; she could not deny her
Friend. What was she to do? And yet--just at this moment when, of all
others, it was important that he should come to her and confirm his
reality--he made no sign. Not only did he make no sign, but he seemed to
withdraw, silently and surely, all his supports. Barbara discovered that
the company of Mary Adams did in very truth make everything that was not
sure and certain absurd and impossible. There was visible no longer, as
there had been before, that country wherein anything was possible, where
wonderful things had occurred and where wonderful things would surely
occur again.
"You're pretending," said Mary Adams sharply when Barbara ventured some
possibly extravagant version of some ordinary occurrence, or suggested
that events, rich and wonderful, had occurred during the night.
"Nonsense," said Mary sharply.
She said "nonsense" as though it were the very foundation of her creed
of life--as, indeed, to the end of her days, it was. What, then, was
Barbara to do? Her friend would not come, although passionately she
begged and begged and begged that he would. Mary Adams was there every
day, sharp, and shining, and resolved, demanding the whole of Barbara
Flint, body and soul--nothing was to be kept from her, nothing. What was
Barbara Flint to do?
She denied her Friend, denied that earlier world, denied her dreams and
her hopes. She cried a good deal, was very lonely in the dark. Mary
Adams, as was her way, having won her victory, passed on to win another.
IV
Mary began, now, to find Barbara rather tiresome. Having forced her to
renounce her gods, she now despised her for so easy a renunciation.
Every day did she force Barbara through her act of denial, and the
Inquisition of Spain held, in all its records, nothing more cruel.
"Did he come last night?"
"No."
"He'll never come again, will he?"
"No."
"Wasn't it silly of you to make up stories like that?"
"Oh, Mary--yes."
"There aren't ghosts, nor fairies, nor giants, nor wizards, nor Santa
Claus?"
"No; but, Mary, p'r'aps----"
"No; there aren't. Say there aren't."
"There isn't."
Poor Barbara, even as she concluded this ceremony, clutching her doll
close to her to give her comfort, could not refrain from a hurried
glance over her shoulder. He _might_ be---- But upon Mary this all began
soon enough to pall. She liked some opposition. She liked to defeat
people and trample on them and then be gracious. Barbara was a poor
little thing. Moreover, Barbara's standard of morality and righteousness
annoyed her. Barbara seemed to have no idea that there was anything in
this confused world of ours except wrong and right. No dialectician,
argue he ever so stoutly, could have persuaded Barbara that there was
such a colour in the world's paint-box as grey. "It's bad to tell lies.
It's bad to steal. It's bad to put your tongue out. It's good to be kind
to poor people. It's good to say 'No' when you want more pudding but
mustn't have it." Barbara was no prig. She did not care the least little
thing about these things, nor did she ever mention them, but let a
question of conduct arise, then was Barbara's way plain and clear. She
did not always take it, but there it was. With Mary, how very different!
She had, I am afraid, no sense of right and wrong at all, but only a
coolly ironical perception of the things that her elders disliked and
permitted. Very foolish and absurd, these elders. We have always before
our eyes some generation that provokes our irony, the one before us, the
one behind us, our own perhaps; for Mary Adams it would always be any
generation that was not her own. Her business in life was to avoid
unpleasantness, to extract the honey from every flower, but above all to
be admired, praised, preferred.
At first with her pleasure at Barbara's adoration she had found, within
herself, a truly alarming desire to be "good." It might, after all, be
rather amusing to be, in strict reality, all the fine things that
Barbara considered her. She endeavoured for a week or two to adjust
herself to this point of view, to consider, however slightly, whether
it were right or wrong to do something that she particularly wished to
do.
But she found it very tiresome. The effort spoilt her temper, and no one
seemed to notice any change. She might as well be bad as good were there
no one present to perceive the difference. She gave it up, and, from
that moment found that she suffered Barbara less gladly than before.
Meanwhile, in Barbara also strange forces had been at work. She found
that her imagination (making up stories) simply, in spite of all the
Mary Adamses in the world, refused to stop. Still would the almond tree
and the fountain, the gold dust on the roofs of the houses when the sun
was setting, the racing hurry of rain drops down the window-pane, the
funny old woman with the red shawl who brought plants round in a
wheelbarrow, start her story telling.
Still could she not hold herself from fancying, at times, that her doll
Jane was a queen, and that Miss Letts could make "spells" by the mere
crook of her bony fingers. Worst of all, still she must think of her
Friend, tell herself with an ache that he would never come back again,
feel, sometimes, that she would give up Mary and all the rest of the
world if he would only be beside her bed, as he used to be, talking to
her, holding her hand. During these days, had there been any one to
observe her, she was a pathetic little figure, with her thin legs like
black sticks, her saucer eyes that so readily filled with tears, her
eager, half-apprehensive expression, the passionate clutch of the doll
to her heart, and it is, after all, a painful business, this
adoration--no human soul can live up to the heights of it, and, what is
more, no human soul ought to.
As Mary grew tired of Barbara she allowed to slip from her many of the
virtuous graces that had hitherto, for Barbara's benefit, adorned her.
She lost her temper, was cruel simply for the pleasure that Barbara's
ill-restrained agitation yielded her, but, even beyond this, squandered
recklessly her reputation for virtue. Twice, before Barbara's very eyes,
she told lies, and told them, too, with a real mastery of the
craft--long practice and a natural disposition had brought her very near
perfection. Barbara, her heart beating wildly, refused to understand;
Mary could not be so. She held Jane to her breast more tightly than
before. And the denials continued; twice a day now they were extorted
from her--with every denial the ghost of her Friend stole more deeply
into the mist. He was gone; he was gone; and what was left?
Very soon, and with unexpected suddenness, the crisis came.
V
Upon a day Barbara accompanied her mother to tea with Mrs. Adams. The
ladies remained downstairs in the dull splendour of the drawing-room;
Mary and Barbara were delivered to Miss Fortescue, the most recent
guardian of Mary's life and prospects.
"She's simply awful. You needn't mind a word she says," Mary instructed
her friend, and prepared then to behave accordingly. They had tea, and
Mary did as she pleased. Miss Fortescue protested, scolded, was weak
when she should have been strong, and said often, "Now, Mary, there's a
dear."
Barbara, the faint colour coming and going in her cheeks, watched. She
watched Mary now with quite a fresh intention. She had begun her voyage
of discovery: what was in Mary's head, _what_ would she do next? What
Mary did next was to propose, after tea, that they should travel through
other parts of the house.
"We'll be back in a moment," Mary flung over her head to Miss Fortescue.
They proceeded then through passages, peering into dark rooms, looking
behind curtains, Barbara following behind her friend, who seemed to be
moved by a rather aimless intention of finding something to do that she
shouldn't. They finally arrived at Mrs. Adams's private and particular
sitting-room, a place that may be said, in the main, to stand as a
protest against the rule of the ancient philosopher, being all pink and
flimsy and fragile with precious vases and two post-impressionist
pictures (a green apple tree one, the other a brown woman), and lace
cushions and blue bowls with rose leaves in them. Barbara had never been
into this room before, nor had she ever in all her seven years seen
anything so lovely.
"Mother says I'm never to come in here," announced Mary. "But I
do--lots. Isn't it pretty?"
"P'r'aps we oughtn't----" began Barbara.
"Oh, yes, we ought," answered Mary scornfully. "Always you and your
'oughtn't.'"
She turned, and her shoulders brushed a low bracket that was close to
the door. A large Nankin vase was at her feet, scattered into a thousand
pieces. Even Mary's proud indifference was stirred by this catastrophe,
and she was down on her knees in an instant, trying to pick up the
pieces. Barbara stared, her eyes wide with horror.
"Oh, Mary," she gasped.
"You might help instead of just standing there!"
Then the door opened and, like the avenging gods from Olympus, in came
the two ladies, eagerly, with smiles.
"Now I must just show you," began Mrs. Adams. Then the catastrophe was
discovered--a moment's silence, then a cry from the poor lady: "Oh, my
vase! It was priceless!" (It was not, but no matter.)
About Barbara the air clung so thick with catastrophe that it was from a
very long way indeed that she heard Mary's voice:
"Barbara didn't mean-----"
"Did you do this, Barbara?" her mother turned round upon her.
"You know, Mary, I've told you a thousand times that you're not to come
in here!" this from Mrs. Adams, who was obviously very angry indeed.
Mary was on her feet now and, as she looked across at Barbara, there was
in her glance a strange look, ironical, amused, inquisitive, even
affectionate. "Well, mother, I knew we mustn't. But Barbara wanted to
_look_ so I said we'd just _peep_, but that we weren't to touch
anything, and then Barbara couldn't help it, really; her shoulder just
brushed the shelf----" and still as she looked there was in her eyes
that strange irony: "Well, now you see me as I am--I'm bored by all this
pretending. It's gone on long enough. Are you going to give me away?"
But Barbara could do nothing. Her whole world was there, like the Nankin
vase, smashed about her feet, as it never, never would be again.
"So you did this, Barbara?" Mrs. Flint said.
"Yes," said Barbara. Then she began to cry.
VI
At home she was sent to bed. Her mother read her a chapter of the Gospel
according to St. Matthew, and then left her; she lay there, sick with
crying, her eyes stiff and red, wondering how she would ever get through
the weeks and weeks of life that remained to her. She thought: "I'll
never love any one again. Mary took my Friend away--and then she wasn't
there herself. There isn't anybody."
Then it suddenly occurred to her that she need never be put through the
agony of her denials again, that she could believe what she liked, make
up stories.
Her Friend would, of course, never come to see her any more, but at
least now she would be able to think about him. She would be allowed to
remember. Her brain was drowsy, her eyes half closed. Through the
humming air something was coming; the dark curtains were parted, the
light of the late afternoon sun was faint yellow upon the opposite
wall--there was a little breeze. Drowsily, drowsily, her drooping eyes
felt the light, the stir of the air, the sense that some one was in the
room.
She looked up; she gave a cry! He had come back! He had come back after
all!