Jane had a sense of relief. She would have three days to herself. Three days at Sherwood—with the blossoming trees, and the mating birds, and Merrymaid and the kitten, and old Sophy with her wise philosophy—and Baldy on the other side of the little table—and Philomel singing....
Briggs took her out at noon, and Sophy came in to say, “Mr. Evans called you-all up. He’s back fum New York. He say he’ll come over to-night.”
That was news indeed! Old Evans! Jane got into the frock of faded lilac gingham and went about the house singing. Three days! Of freedom!
It was after lunch that she told the old woman, “I’m going down in the Glen—there should be wild honeysuckle—Sophy.”
Sophy surveyed her. “The whole place is chock-full of flowers, Miss Janey. And I’ll miss my guess effen dey ain’ mo’ of ’em dis afternoon.”
“But—wild honeysuckle, Sophy? The florists haven’t that for me, have they?”
So Jane put on a wide-brimmed hat, and away she went down the long road with the pines on each side of it—the wide creek, which washed in shallow ripples over the brown stones, or eddied in still pools under the great old willows.
There were bees in the Glen and butterflies, and a cool silence. On the other side of the creek were pasture, and cattle grazing. But no human creature was in sight. Jane, walking along the narrow path, had a sense of utter peace. Here was familiar ground. She felt the welcome of inanimate things—the old willows, the singing stream, the great gray rocks that stuck their heads above the edges of the bank.
On the slope of the bank she saw the rosiness of the flowers she sought. She climbed up, picked the fragrant sprays and sat down under a hickory tree to make a bouquet. From where she sat she could view the broad stream and a rustic bridge just at a turn of the path.
And now, around the turn of the path, came suddenly a man and two boys. They carried fishing-rods and stopped at a jutting rock to bait their hooks. One of the boys went out on the bridge and cast his line. His voice came to Jane clearly.