She clung to his arm; he pushed her away.
She hung about his neck.
“Little brother,” she sobbed, “I will follow you.”
He allowed himself to be moved by such touching repentance.
“Come then, but not through the town; we may be seen. We will follow the ramparts and then we can reach the highway by a cross road.”
And so they went hand in hand while George explained his plans.
“We will follow the road we took to the Hermitage and then we shall be sure to see the lake, just as we did the other day, and then we can cross the fields in a bee line.”
“A bee line” is the pretty rustic way of saying a straight line; and they both laughed because of the young girl’s name which fitted in so oddly.
Honey-Bee picked flowers along the ditches; she made a posy of marshmallows, white mullein, asters and chrysanthemums; the flowers faded in her little hands and it was pitiful to see them when Honey-Bee crossed the old stone bridge. As she did not know what to do with them she decided to throw them into the water to refresh them, but finally she preferred to give them to the “Woman without a head.”
She begged George to lift her in his arms so as to make her tall enough, and she placed her armful of wild flowers between the folded hands of the old stone figure.