For the second time that morning Louise was conscious of an unexpected upheaval of emotion. She felt that the sunshine had gone, that the whole sweetness of the place had suddenly passed away. The charm of its simple austerity had perished.
"And I thought I had found paradise!" she cried.
She moved quickly from John Strangewey's side. Before he could realize her intention, she had stepped over the low dividing wall and was on her knees by the side of the plain, neglected grave. She tore out the spray of apple-blossom which she had thrust into the bosom of her gown, and placed it reverently at the head of the little mound. For a moment her eyes drooped and her lips moved—she herself scarcely knew whether it was in prayer. Then she turned and came slowly back to her companion.
Something had gone, too, from his charm. She saw in him now nothing but the coming dourness of his brother. Her heart was still heavy. She shivered a little.
"Come," she said, "let us go back!"
They commenced the steep descent in silence. Every now and then John held his companion by the arm to steady her somewhat uncertain footsteps. It was he at last who spoke.
"Will you tell me, please, what is the matter with you, and why you placed that sprig of apple-blossom where you did?"
His tone woke her from her lethargy. She was a little surprised at its poignant, almost challenging note.
"Certainly," she replied. "I placed it there as a woman's protest against the injustice of that isolation."
"I deny that it is unjust."