Then she bent and laid her pale fine face against the dark bowed head.
“You are tired, dear, very, very tired. You must go to bed and rest––there is so much to do; so much.”
CHAPTER XXI
In King’s Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened––but, as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like a cancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper––to the death.
The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliterated links; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even they ached with the pain of blows they had endured.
The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbed and pulsated and to them, more often than of old––or so it seemed––the bell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages––messages rung out by unseen hands.
“There’s mostly lost winds this winter,” poor Jan-an whimpered to Peneluna. “I have feelin’s most all the time. I’m scared early and late, and that cold my bones jingle.”
Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl, wrapped her in warmer clothes, and sent her scurrying across the frozen lake to the yellow house.