So her eyes were dry and her little shoulders bravely set as she trudged on down through the fringe of trees and into the brook path.
She did not know the cross-cuts by which Jimmie went to the station every week—Oh yes, Jimmie went to the station every week!—but she knew the direction fairly well. She would find it. She did not know how many trains there were in the day, but she was quite sure that there would be one before she could be missed and overtaken. Jimmie had gone fishing for the day.
Now this last thing one would rather not tell. Studied design could not have found anything quite so cruel to have done to her. It is, in fact, left for accident and blind, silly coincidence to furnish the most terrible thrusts of life. When Augusta came, still dry-eyed and hurrying, down the dusty road to the little station, she saw a man going away from the station and starting across the fields. He did not see her.
It was Jimmie. He had not gone fishing.
IX
"Charles of Burgundy Comes, Thirteen Fifty-Eight—"
"He's a boob if he comes here!"
"That don't mean comes, you nut," some scholar elucidated. "Comes means Duke. Charles, Duke of Burgundy. He built the bridge."