But she turned no pages. For there, outside on the window-ledge, broad-faced, clear, open-eyed, an iris alata stared up at her from its carpet of saxifrage.
"The most beautiful thing!"
Yes! that was it--and he had given it to her ...
The poetry which another man had written slipped to the floor unheeded. She was absorbed in what this man had brought her.
She knelt quite still for a time, her hands slightly clasped, feeling dazed at something in herself which responded--which gave back--what?
What was the over-mastering desire to crush the unconscious flower to death with her kisses.
She rose suddenly and began with haste to dress herself. She must climb the mountain-tops, as she so often did in the dawn light, and find some answer.
As she slipped silently through the house, she paused once or twice wondering if she heard something. No! her grandfather's room was quite quiet; but once in the hall the sound became indubitable.
Some one was singing outside. Singing softly it is true, but still singing. The village children, no doubt; but they must be stopped--they must not disturb her grandfather.
The next instant she stood looking with amazed anger at a group of five people who, kneeling on the ground, were singing under their breath some wild Welsh hymn which rose and fell plaintively, persistently. One of these figures she recognised. It was the parlour-maid, Parkinson; this must, therefore, be the tail-end of the revival meeting, for she had heard that such visitations were not uncommon.