Unable any longer to bear the sight of that, Mary turned away into the house to prepare their coming. John, she left in Fanny's arms, having no heart to rob her of him then.
"They've come," she whispered to Mrs. Peverell. "They've come."
"Well?" she inquired. "Was it to shame 'ee?"
For answer Mary took her by the arm and led her to the window.
"Look," she said, and pointed out over the bowl of daffodils on the window sill, down the red brick path to the gate in the oak palings. And that which Mrs. Peverell beheld was the sight of two women, no longer young, lost to all sense of foolishness in their behavior, emotionalized beyond control, swept beyond self-criticism by a thing, all young with life, that kicked its bare legs and crowed and bubbled at its lips, then lying still, lay looking at them with great eyes of wisdom as though in wonder at their folly.
They stayed till later that afternoon, then caught an evening train to Manchester. Mary travelled a mile with them in the old fly, then set out to walk home alone.
"Don't tire yourself," said Hannah, leaning out of the window, as they drove away. "You must still take care."
"Tire myself?" Mary cried back. "I don't feel as if I could ever be tired again."
And still leaning out of the window, watching her with her firm stride as she disappeared into the wood, Hannah knew their sister had found a nearer stream to the heart of life than ever that which flowed through Bridnorth.
VIII