But all of a sudden she began to laugh. It was the first time Martin had ever heard her laugh, or her comrades for six months. Their faces cleared like magic, and they all clapped their hands and ran away. And Martin got down from his bough, because when Joscelyn laughed she didn't look more than fourteen.
"If what, Joscelyn?" he said.
"If you'd stolen the right shoe-string, Martin," said she. And she stuck out her right foot with its neatly-laced yellow slipper. Then Martin knelt down, and instead of lacing the left shoe unlaced the right one, and inside the yellow slipper found the sixth key just under the instep. "Is that the right ending?" said Joscelyn. And Martin held the little foot in his hands rubbing it gently, and said compassionately, "It must have been dreadfully uncomfortable."
"It was sometimes," said Joscelyn.
"Didn't it hurt?" asked Martin, beginning to lace up her shoes for her.
"Now and then," said Joscelyn.
"It was an awfully kiddish place to hide it in," said Martin finishing, and as he looked up Joscelyn laughed again, rubbing her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, and for all the great growing girl that she was looked no more than twelve. So he slid under the swing and stood up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck where babies are kissed.
Then all the milkmaids came back again.