She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she thought he was falling asleep. But no.
"It is raining," he said presently, still with closed eyes.
"Yes; a summer shower."
"Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were in the little cave? You are changed since then."
She made no answer.
"Your face has grown grave. No one would take you for a child now, but that day in the cave you were hardly more than one."
"You too are changed," she answered, turning the conversation from herself; "you are thin and pale. You must sleep and eat. Surrender yourself to that duty for the time being." She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound of footsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She began to dread rain.
Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was conscious that his eyes were open, and that he was looking at her. At last he said, gently,
"I should have placed it there, Anne."
She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, and the gold ring given by the school-girls.