“How many days are there in a year, did you say?”
“Three hundred and sixty-five.”
“A day—a day is a poor short thing,” said Her Grace. “If I had a wish, I’d wish them longer. ’Tis cold in here, with the wind roaring down the chimney. Hold me closer—hold me fast.”
And with spring her wish was granted, and the days were longer; not long enough to hold the joy they poured into them—but filled to the brim with pale sunlight and primroses and hawthorn hedges. And it was June, and they were longer still, flooded with golden warmth and the smell of yellow roses and life and magic, and the taste of honey. And it was July, and it was his birthday—and the world stood still.
Her Grace gave him the yellow-headed baby for a birthday present. When they brought him his son he looked at him with strange eyes and turned his face away and asked them in a voice that none would have known,
“How is she now?”
The great doctors who had come hurrying from London shook their heads, and were grave and pompous and learned.
“Bad. Her heart was in a shocking condition—she had not told you?”
No—no, she had not told him.
“Well, we must hope; we must hope.”