“That’s what we must be finding out, dear. Love; the man: some day they will be the glory, making everything more splendid, but not––the all. I think I should have died, Aunt Polly, had I kept on.”
Like an inspired young oracle, Mary-Clare spoke and then dropped again by the fire.
“I’ve somehow learned all this,” she whispered, “in my Place up on the hill. It just came to me, little by little, until it convinced me. I had to tell Larry the truth.”
“Mary-Clare, I do not know; I don’t feel able to put it into words, but I do believe you’re going to make sad trouble for yourself, child. Such a thing as this you have done has never been done before in the Forest.”
“Maybe.”
A door upstairs slammed loudly and both women started nervously.
“I must tell Peter to fix the latch of the attic door to-morrow,” Aunt Polly said, relieved to be back on good, plain, solid ground. “The attic winders are raised and the wind’s rising. It will be slam, slam all night, unless–––” she rose quickly.
“Just a minute, Aunt Polly, I’m so tired. Please let me lie here on the couch and rest for an hour and then I’ll slip home.”
“Let me put you to bed properly, child. You look suddenly beat flat. That’s the way with women. They get to thinking they’ve got wings when they ain’t, child, they ain’t. You’re making a terrible break in your life, child. Terrible.”