"And then when the children came—the neighbor's children,—and I put the little darlings to bed, and they said their prayers to me, and I tried to pray, too—sometimes I was afraid to pray—and then, and then," (she glanced round watchfully and dropped her voice) "something would say, 'Why didn't he leave me alone? I was so happy!'"
"You morbid little woman! You shall be happy again—you are happy now, are you not?" he said.
Her eyes, bleared and red, but bright with the shafts of love, looked up at him in the dumb joy that is perfect happiness.
"Ah!" she said, and dropped her comely head on his breast.
"But you should have taken walks—long, healthy, happy walks," he said.
"I did—while the roses bloomed and the dahlias and things, and I saved so many of them against you would come, moss roses and wild white roses; but you were so long coming and they withered. And then I couldn't throw them away, because, you know, they were yours; so I pressed them in the book you gave me. See, let me show you."
She stepped aside eagerly to pick up a little gilt-edged book from the table in the inner room. He followed her mechanically, hardly heeding her happy prattle.
"And was there no young fellow in all Hendon to make those lonely walks of yours more cheerful?"
She was opening her book with nervous fingers, and stopped to look up with blank eyes.
"Eh? No handsome young fellow who whispered that you were a pretty little thing, and had no right to go moping about by yourself? None? Eh?"