The sergeant addressed his subordinate.
“Take ’im,” he said shortly.
He drew a whistle and blew five or six short blasts. Then he turned to Ann.
“Was he your friend, lady?”
Ann started violently at the tense, staring open-mouthed into the sergeant’s eyes. Then she caught the groom’s head and peered at the quiet face. For a moment she held it between her palms; then very gently she suffered it to roll back into its old position. . . .
Ann sank back on her heels and stared at the sky.
Slowly the Morland took shape—the spreading oak and the cottage and the jolly brown horse . . . the girl standing in the doorway, holding the little boy . . . and the man on the horse, smiling . . . all alone and happy—under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but very, very happy. . . .
A dry sob shook Ann—the first of many.
Presently the tears began to stream down her cheeks.
She continued to stare steadfastly up into the sky, till the bystanders followed her gaze and tried to see something.