"See, now, the plough is set, the furrow drawn, and the old life hidden away; and who can make it any more the same? But Spring, little girl, is surely coming, and even, after long months, harvest."
Down the path, across the fields, came Tommy, dangling a contented catapult, and ruminating on the day's successes.
As he passed the ploughing he stopped, and gave a low whistle of surprise—then guessed quickly enough what had happened. Madge lay stretched out, face downwards, upon the black loam, and for a moment Tommy stood perplexed.
Then he called, in a low voice, almost as he would have spoken in a church:
"Madge, Madge."
But she did not move.
He knelt beside her, and some strange instinct bade him doff his cap. Then he touched her shoulder and her black hair, with shy fingers.
"Madge," he called, again.
The child jumped to her feet, and tossing back her hair, looked at him with half-frightened eyes.
He noticed that her cheeks were stained with the soft earth, and he saw tears upon them.