“Sir, you are of a very different opinion to Peter Waghorn, the wood-carver in the tiled house yonder. He frowned on me and my gown, and thought doubtless that grey and pink should be left for the skies at dawn, not worn by a worm of earth, as he deems me. I do detest that talk of earthworms.”
“You should never wear any colours save those of the sky,” said Norton, gazing into the comely face and dark grey eyes. “May you never again need to wear mourning robes!”
“In truth, when I last donned them,” she said, strolling on towards the farm, “I thought I should never be happy again. Yet to-day I am happy once more—I can’t help it—the world is so beautiful.”
“You who make others happy should be always happy yourself,” he said.
“I don’t make others happy,” she said, drooping her head a little as a memory of her treatment of Gabriel returned unbidden. “I make the people who care for me unhappy.”
“Let me be the exception, then,” he said, boldly. “I have had sorrow enough in my life; don’t give me more.”
She glanced at him doubtfully, then turned aside to gather some more primroses.
“Have you seen the Vicar?” she inquired.
“No, but I have a matter to talk over with him,” said Norton, “and, with your permission, will return to the Vicarage with you and carry your egg-basket.”
“Eggs are fragile things,” she said, laughingly. “I am not sure that I can trust you.”