“Bring me two dozen, dearie, an’ Mrs. Kendrick can spare as many,” said Durdle. “Ay, but you look as fresh as a daisy—it does my heart good to see you. But to think that here you be unwed at two-and-twenty all through this weary war—it fair breaks my heart.”
“It doesn’t break mine,” said Hilary, laughing and tossing her head as she quitted the Vicarage.
She had passed the last house in the village when, catching sight of a bank by the roadside starred over with primroses, she lingered to gather them. The day was fresh and sunny, the sky intensely blue, the early apple blossom in the orchards exquisite in its colouring; for the sheer joy of being alive in such a lovely world she could not help singing softly to herself. The words of Autolycus’ song rose to her lips, while a worse deceiver than that mendacious thief and pedlar quietly pursued her.
“When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year,
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.”
She started a little when Norton’s mellow tones fell on her ear.
“A beautiful song for a beautiful spring day, and chanted by a radiant vision of spring!” he exclaimed, feasting his eyes on her loveliness.
She laughed as she curtseyed in response to his profound bow.