“Nay, it’s here.”
The sun was leaving the kitchen at long last, but it was still smoothly golden on the sands. In garden and orchard the shadows were growing long, and the yew had a passing brother on the ground. Out at sea there was a new life stirring, a new tide coming out of the deep, but where Agnes stood in the kitchen a vapoury shadow grew, pointing and reaching and deepening towards the stair.... Suddenly she ran to the old man and caught him round the neck.
“Eh, if you would nobbut try!” she said, with tears. “I can’t abide to think o’ you going back to yon hard woman and poor house!”
He waited patiently while she held him, but his eyes moved on. “It’s never a poor house,” he said, “where folks find their dreams.... Good-bye, my lass,” he added, kindly enough, and hurried out, and did not stumble as he crossed the door. Thomas had to lengthen his stride to catch him on the path.
“I’ll be best wi’ Marget,” Agnes heard him say, and almost at once she heard him say it again. She watched him until he was through the garden gate, but he never once looked back. Out of the sea-window she saw the tide come in.
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast ... nothing but well and fair.”
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