The corn waved and rustled about them; the gaudy poppies nodded and fluttered their limp petals around; and here and there some cornflower’s bright purple peeped out from amidst the tangle of pinky bear-bind and azure vetch. Now a lark would sing loud and high above their heads, or some finch or warbler, emboldened by the silence, would perch upon the hedge hard by, to jerk out a few notes of its song, and then flit to some further spray.
Peace seemed diffused around, and began by degrees to pervade the troubled hearts of the two girls.
“We must go,” said Janet, at last, as she dried her eyes. “I am going back to London to love my old favourites—the fish and the birds.”
Then, looking up in a quiet and compassionate way at Patty, as if she alone were in trouble—
“Come, darling,” she said, “let’s try and forget all this; but kiss me first, and say that you are not angry—not ashamed of me for what I have said. What makes you so silent? Why do you not answer?”
“I was thinking—thinking,” said Patty, wearily, as she put her arms round Janet’s neck and kissed her; “I was thinking that if I could have been like you I should have been happier, for I should have been wiser and known better.”
“Hush!” said Janet, softly; “I am wise, am I not?”
Then taking Patty’s hand as they rose, in an absent, tired fashion, they walked on toward the little inn, where Monsieur Canau was awaiting them.
The sun still shone brightly, and there was the rich mellowness of the early autumn in the atmosphere, tinting all around with its soft golden haze; but it seemed to the two girls that the smoke and ashes of London had fallen upon the scene, and they longed in secret for the time of departure to arrive.
Once, though, as they sat in the pleasant little inn-parlour, Janet saw her companion start from her abstracted mood, for voices were heard approaching, and it was evident that some of the party from the lawn were about to pass the window of the room where their evening meal was spread.