CHAPTER IX.
A HERITAGE OF WOE.
“Love that was dead and buried, yesterday
Out of his grave rose up before my face.”
“Not by appointment do we meet delight and joy—
They heed not our expectancy;
But, at some turning in the walks of life,
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
It was Friday afternoon, two days since the evening when Nugent had driven me away from Durrus to Garden Hill. The sun was shining into Miss Burke’s drawing-room, and through the window I caught occasional glimpses of Miss Burke herself in her garden, examining the hotbed, standing with arms akimbo to direct the operations of the garden boy, or ejecting an errant Plymouth Rock, that had daringly flown over the fuchsia hedge into the garden from the yard.
“Do you remember that afternoon when you said good-bye to Willy out there?” I said, looking round at Nugent, as Miss Burke slammed the garden gate on the intruder. “I was there by the henhouse all the time.”
“Yes, I knew you were—I was watching you out of the window while I was being talked to by Miss Croly.”
“Then why did you say what you did about America to Willy? You must have known I could hear.”