“I think it did,” Joan said softly.
They were finding their way to the river brink—the spot where once Dulcibel the bride had dabbled her hands in water, and where twice over George had read aloud, first to one hearer, and then to three hearers. Joan said smilingly, when this place was reached—
“Trench’s Poems.”
“It seems quite the correct thing now to have Trench with us here,” remarked George smiling too. “But unfortunately I forgot him to-day. My memory is uncertain.”
“Ah, but I am your memory, father!” —and Joan triumphantly held aloft a green volume.
“Well done, Joan!” He took it from her, but gave it back. “No, you shall read something to me for a change. No need for us to run in a groove.”
“I shall turn to my favorite ‘Century of Couplets,’” Joan answered.
She seemed, however, to find choice difficult. George watched for some time her fixed gaze at a certain page, and then caught a stealthy glance from eyes soft with unshed tears.
“What is it, my dear?”
“Something I came on here,” said Joan, with the least possible break in her voice. “It is only—only this—