"I bet you were glad to go down among the familiar sights again and find they hadn't changed, Margery."
"But they had," she answered. "I couldn't forget. I tried—I tried hard, but children remember so. I hated the Beacon for days after that, and was always glad when his head was covered with clouds, so I couldn't see him. I thought he was a wicked monster that had gone and spoiled things I set store by, and showed me they were small and mean compared to him. But after to-day I'll forgive him."
Jacob felt mildly surprised at this unexpected glimpse into his sweetheart's mind.
"Who'd have thought a chit of a child could get such fancies," he said; "but I dare say girls are different from boys and dream all manner of funny things like that."
"Don't boys dream too?" she asked.
"Maybe some do. I never did. All the same I like to hear about your dreaming. Pretty I call it."
"No, you don't, Jacob. You'd call it silly in anybody but me. But so it was. I made up things and told 'em to other children. And I tried telling 'em to my brother, Thomas, who was some years younger than me. He had a great contempt for girls, however. He was just short of seventeen when he died, poor little chap."
"Took after your mother, she says."
"Yes, terrible serious, and that good! Goodness was his nature. Jeremy's more like me."
"Your mother's a thought stern."