George was looking at Joan. She seemed to have forgotten her companions, and was stepping on the bridge, with heightened color and intent eyes. He followed her half over, his steady tread making the whole structure heave and swing. There he remained, while Joan walked to the other side, and stood still, looking about dreamily.
“Can you remember it, Joan?” he asked.
She turned her face towards him.
“Not well, father. It is not in the least like what I have fancied—except grass and trees—and people. I have a picture in my mind of a little girl sitting on the ground, and somebody taking her up in his arms. But I don’t know how much is really recollection, and how much is imagination.”
“A difficult question to settle. Can you recall your mother leaving you here?”
“No,” Joan said slowly. “No, father.”
She walked on a few paces, and stood still again, absorbed in thought. George went back to his wife.
“Now Dulcie.”
“I’m not going over, George.”
George smiled and held out his hand. Dulcibel hesitated, unable to refuse an answering smile, and then accepted the offered grasp, with a reiterated, “I don’t mean to go.”