Late that afternoon Greta stole hatless through the lilac bushes; she looked tired after her night journey, and sat idly on a chair in the speckled shadow of a lime-tree.
'It is not like home,' she thought; 'I am unhappy. Even the birds are silent, but perhaps that is because it is so hot. I have never been sad like this—for it is not fancy that I am sad this time, as it is sometimes. It is in my heart like the sound the wind makes through a wood, it feels quite empty in my heart. If it is always like this to be unhappy, then I am sorry for all the unhappy things in the world; I am sorrier than I ever was before.'
A shadow fell on the grass, she raised her eyes, and saw Dawney.
“Dr. Edmund!” she whispered.
Dawney turned to her; a heavy furrow showed between his brows. His eyes, always rather close together, stared painfully.
“Dr. Edmund,” Greta whispered, “is it true?”
He took her hand, and spread his own palm over it.
“Perhaps,” he said; “perhaps not. We must hope.”
Greta looked up, awed.
“They say he is dying.”