Lyndsay uttered a malediction on things in general, and walked away.
Some time after lunch Anne called Ned, and went over the river with Tom, who thundered replies to her ever-varying range of questions about climate, lumber, trees, and men. A little later, Margaret and her husband, who had given up for her his evening sport, set out up-stream, and the twins were left to the Indian and a chance at the lower pool.
Anne and the boy climbed up the bank, and went away into the woodland. Several times, feeling tired, she sat down on a wayside stump or fallen tree. She had the peculiar trait of liking to be silent when afoot or when driving. As soon as she was at rest her tongue was apt to be set free, and she became, as usual, a delightful comrade.
Now she began to amuse herself by asking the lad in what age he would like to have lived, and was pleased that he chose the reign of Elizabeth. Then at last she talked about Dorothy, and of her life, its hardships, trials, and contentments with what she had, and, finally, of the woman’s interest in “Macbeth” and her own curiosity as to this. She had the art of interesting the young in matters usually thought to be out of their sphere of comprehension.
As she sat, Ned, who was quick to see, noticed that she became of a sudden silent, and, looking up, saw that her face was distorted for a moment, and that she had one hand pressed against her side. He rose, saying:
“What is the matter, Aunt Anne?”
“Nothing. Nothing much. I very often have pain, and sometimes it beats me.”
“I am sorry. Can’t I do something?”
“No, dear. It will be better presently. It is better now,” and she wiped her brow.
“Why do people have pain?”