"Yes," she answered, low. "I know you would. I remember that you did. I remember—very well."
He answered absently, as they moved slowly along together. "How it all comes back!" He stopped, gazing round. "What is it, just here, that brings the wharf and the Thames, and everything, flashing back like a snap-shot on my mind?"
They were standing just beside a rick of newly-cut steppe grass. "The scent of the hay," she whispered.
With a touch of her hand she urged him on. He said no more. No further word passed his lips until they reached the rest-house.
CHAPTER XXVII
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
All alone, thou and I, in the desert,
In the land all forgotten of God.
—HENRY KINGSLEY.
Aunt Bee had insisted upon supplying Veronica, when she started upon her perilous enterprise in the wilderness, with all kinds of medicaments; and she was able to assure Felix that she had Pommade Divine to apply to her bruises. He made her bed up for her with an ingenious arrangement of cushions, and, when he had hung a lamp up inside, under the tilt, and lowered a curtain between them, she had a little private chamber to herself, where she could safely investigate the extent of her hurt.
There was a bruise and some swelling, and no doubt the pain had been sharper on account of the mischief done two years ago in her far more perilous fall. But as far as she could tell, it was merely external; and when she was snugly curled up among her pillows it gave her little discomfort. Her ensuing wakefulness was not due to pain, but to a disturbance of feeling which took long to subside to a point which would allow of her sleeping.
The fine air, however, came to her help, and now that she was used to it, the motion of the carriage also lulled her. She slept, and soundly, until past seven o'clock next morning.