From the laurels it rose, low and clear, and Madge's heart jumped quickly as she heard, for the whistle was Tommy's, and she could not remember how long ago it was since she had heard it.
Then she remembered that it must not be answered—for was not Tommy in disgrace—at any rate, as far as she was concerned?
And had they not quarrelled so deeply that repair was almost an impossibility?
It was very presumptuous of him to think that she should answer it.
She would remain where she was, in icy stillness, mastering the prepositions with an iron hand.
A pleasing sense of virtue stole into her being, mixed with visions of a downcast, brown face somewhere in the shrubbery, and for five long minutes silence reigned. Then the whistle rang out again, a little louder, and surely it sounded almost penitent.
A picture of a broken-hearted Tommy, whistling in dry-eyed sorrow, rose to her eyes.
It was true that his offences had been great, but then, was not forgiveness divine?
Madge felt sure that this was so. Was it not written in fair characters in her last copy-book?
She closed her book and stood by the glass doors.