He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to his temples.
"And have you read modern authors too?"
"Very little. There is no opportunity here. There is nothing here—nothing!" he answered, flinging aside a handful of leaves he had unwittingly gathered.
"Why do you stay here, then?"
The question sprang, almost without volition, from her lips. She would gladly have recalled it the next moment.
Granger gave her another swift glance, and it seemed to her that he repressed the answer which was already upon his tongue. A strange, bitter smile came to his lips.
"Let the shoemaker stick to his last," he said, turning toward the carriage, "and the farmer to his plow."
During the homeward ride he was even more taciturn than usual. At the door, Mrs. Jerome offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted it, with but few words.
When he returned it, a few days later, it opened of itself, and between the leaves lay a small cluster of wild roses, and some lines were faintly marked. They were these: