One that will not faith abuse,
Nor repay with coy disdain
Love that should be loved again.”
It was the same maypole song that he had listened to years ago at Bosbury just after their betrothal.
Utterly spent with pain and loss of blood, the effort of making his way through the gap in the hedge proved more than flesh could bear.
“’Tis no use—no use!” he thought, despairingly as he entered the orchard. “I can’t go another step! My God! Must I be so near to Hilary, and yet die like a dog in a ditch?” He reeled back, and, with a groan, fell senseless to the ground, to the horror and dismay of the children, who dropped their skipping-ropes and fled in terror.
“The Puritan!” they screamed; “he has fallen down dead!” But before very long curiosity conquered terror; they stole back hand-in-hand, and gazed at him with awe-struck faces.
“He looks as if he were asleep,” said little Meg.
“That’s how folks do look,” explained Nan, “just asleep, you know. But all the time they’re really awake up in the sky.”
“Wondering, perhaps, why we don’t understand,” said Meg, dreamily.