She laughed. "I've done it all my life. Do you remember," she went on slowly, "what I once told you about the fires? Oh, years ago, when I first saw you."
"The fires?" he said.
"Never mind if you've forgotten."
"I don't forget things," he said; "I'm remembering." His mind was urged by his sense of her disappointment and by the sight of her face, which the shadows saddened. The basket hung on her arm and her hands were clasped together: she looked like a child and he could not believe in her twenty years.
"It doesn't matter," she said softly.
"But I do remember. It's the spring fires."
"The Easter fires."
"Of course, of course, you told me—"
"I think they must be burning now. That's where I'm going—to look for them."
"I wish I could come too."