"Yes, God is the gardener of the forest, summer and winter, year in and year out. He gives us all the power we need. When the time of singing birds comes, then a whisper and hum runs through the whole of the forest, and all the big tree world wakes from sleep. Everyone is drowsy at first—some seem almost dead—but gradually we open our eyes and cover our naked limbs, and get out our summer dress, and shake our leafy garments in the sunshine, while the forest folk build new homes in our branches and utter their thoughts of praise." The oak paused.
"We must stop story-telling now," said Margaret; "it is lunch-time."
"No, no—go on—oh, do, please go on, Miss Woodford!"
"Not now, dear; it's later than I thought," glancing at her wrist-watch—"and besides, it seems to be getting dark; I think a storm is coming. We must hurry home."
"Not yet. It doesn't matter if it rains."
"I think it does; anyway, we must go. Come along quickly."
"Oh, you are nasty!" muttered the child, her bright face clouding over, and the former spirit of antagonism returning.
However, she said no more, perhaps because she saw it was useless. She had at last come upon someone whose will was as strong, or stronger than her own. Well, she could afford to wait until the afternoon, when she would be reinforced. An unpleasant smile curled her lips as she remembered again with glee that to-day was Saturday: the absorption of the story-telling had meant a short obliteration of that fact, but it suddenly returned with added force.
The two had a smart run at the finish of their walk, for the storm burst above them suddenly. There was a vivid flash of lightning, followed instantly by a crash that rolled and echoed through the forest, waking a hundred voices in its depths; then down came the rain, in a perfect deluge.
As they entered the front door later, wet through, they encountered Mr. Medhurst just discarding his mackintosh.