Helen’s face grew cloudy with trouble, but she said nothing then, only hurried the boy along toward the river.
In spite of her determination she avoided the town main street, and struck off by the narrow turning which led through the old churchyard, with its grand lime-tree avenue and venerable church, whose crocketed spire was a landmark for all the southern part of the county.
“Look, look!” cried Dexter. “See those jackdaws fly out? There’s one sitting on that old stone face. See me fetch him down.”
“No, no,” cried Helen, catching his arm. “You might break a window.”
“No, I wouldn’t. You see.”
“But why throw at the poor bird? It has done you no harm.”
“No, but it’s a jackdaw, and you always want to throw stones at jackdaws.”
“And at blackbirds and thrushes and starlings too, Dexter?” said Helen.
The boy looked guilty.
“You didn’t see me throw at them?”