Far away and out of sight, deep-toned and mellow, came the lowing of cattle and the staccato barking of a dog, driving the herd to the milking. One by one live things of the country-side commenced to wake and stir. Rabbits hopped out among the cowslips and nibbled at the turf. Birds, like children put to bed and frightened of being left, called “Good-night. Good-night. Good-night,” over and over. From watch-towers of tall trees mother-birds answered, “Good-night. Good-night. Good-night.” The world had become maternal. The spirit of life’s brevity, of parting, of remembrance, of regret, of happiness withheld was in the air. The golden woman felt her loneliness. Looking at the children, so defiant in their sureness of one another, she recalled her lost opportunities.
An arm stole about her. A brown hand covered hers. She leant back her head so that it lay against the Faun Man’s jacket. So many things seemed worth the seeking in this world—so few worth the keeping when found. For the moment she liked to fancy that her search was at an end.
Peter spoke. “If you please, I think we must be going. I’ve got to get Kay back, you know. Even now, I’ll have to light the lamps.”
“But—but we haven’t seen Harry.”
A light woke in the golden woman’s eyes. She was about to speak; the Faun Man pressed his hand against her mouth. “You can see him to-morrow, little girl, if Peter will bring you.”
“But where is he?”
The Faun Man swept the horizon. “Somewhere over there. He’s gone away into the wood with Canute, because we hurt his feelings.”
“But what’s he doing?” Kay insisted.
The Faun Man looked at the golden woman; his eyes asked, “Shall we tell?” They turned back to Kay. “What’s he doing? Sitting with his head in his hands. Crying, perhaps—— Do boys cry, Peter? He doesn’t like his brother and this little woman to be together. The poor old chap doesn’t think we do each other any good.”
“And do we?” The golden woman spoke softly.