So a longer time was occupied with the walk than would have been three years before, had he gone then at his full speed. And when the tremulous swinging bridge was reached, George seemed glad to lean against a tree for a brief rest before crossing.
“We have come rather too fast, I am afraid,” Joan said, as he drew his handkerchief across his brow.
“No; I shall be all right directly. Take a look at the old surroundings, Joan.”
Joan obeyed, going slowly over, and giving herself up to the enjoyment of wooded heights, and varied autumn tintings. The little river babbled on still with its ceaseless soft chatter, and the old church stood unchanged in the centre. Quick changes of light and shade came from the passing of small cloudlets over the sun.
“It is very lovely, father,” Joan said, when he joined her. “I don’t know any dearer place than this valley, because it is where you first found me.”
“There might be a dearer spot, Joan,” he said, as they passed on slowly.
“What—home, father?”
“No, my dear. I meant the spot where Another found you.”
Joan was silent for a minute or more.
“Do you think he really has found me?” she asked at length.