From seeds of April’s sowing.
‘I plant a heartful now; some seed
At least is sure to strike—’”
What malign influence had brought the reading to this point just now? Fitz might have used those very words. Involuntarily Mabel rose and stood at the edge of the verandah, looking out into the rain. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she stood with her back to Mr Burgrave, and he did not see them. He read on—
“‘And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, maybe, like.
‘You’ll look at least on love’s remains,
A grave’s one violet;
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
What’s death? You’ll love me yet!’”