“David must have been a very different sort of person from me,” responded Dulcibel rather combatively.
“Peter was not so different.”
“Peter! Why?”
“‘O thou of little faith!’” quoted George; not the first time he had quoted the words in this valley, whether or no he remembered the fact.
“I can’t help being what I am,” said Dulcibel.
“You don’t really mean what that would seem to imply.”
“No,” Dulcibel said at once honestly, “I suppose not. At least if I were talking to somebody else, I should say that one has to trust, and that God can do all for us. But practically I don’t find that I am different from what I used to be. I suppose I don’t trust enough. Of course it is very easy for you, always strong, and always expecting the best, and never afraid. I am afraid of things. It gives me such a dreadful feeling now to think of seventeen years having gone by since we were here last. And one never can tell what will happen next, or how long things will still go on so. Every year makes changes more likely. But don’t talk about changes now—there’s no need. We’ll sit down soon and have some biscuits. Girls, you can hunt out a cosy corner, somewhere near the river.”
Dulcibel had of course brought her luncheon basket, and a waterproof cloak for emergencies. The latter was spread out to form a seat for herself and Nessie, George and Joan being close by. Biscuits were disposed of with relish, and talk flowed merrily. Each item of the former visit was recalled, together with divers reminiscences of Joan in childish days, till the black brows showed her objection to the subject. Then George produced a green volume.
“Do you remember this, Dulcie?”
“Trench’s Poems? Why, I do believe that is the book I brought here last time, when I used to think I ought to like everything that you liked. And you read aloud a doleful poem that made me cry.”