After a time, having "cried it out," she sat in an easy-chair near the window, watching a mother robin on her nest in the tree outside.
She was not thinking of the robin, however; she was thinking of yesterday and the meeting in the woods—a day she had thought the happiest of her life. She was thinking of the manner in which Locke had looked at her with those clear, honest brown eyes, and how she had thrilled beneath that look. She was thinking of his voice as, sitting on the log and leaning toward her, he had quoted the words of Bassanio, causing the heart, now cold and heavy in her breast, to leap and throb until it seemed that he must hear its joyous beating.
No man had ever stirred her like that, and something told her that no other man could so stir her again. And all the time he had been playing with her—amusing himself!
That day, "the happiest of her life," was a day to regret; a day to forget—if she could forget it. Would the sun ever again shine as brightly? Would the woods ever seem so shadowy cool and inviting? Would the flowers ever be so fair and sweet?
She had loved the world and everything in it, and her blood had danced in her veins, and her feet had longed to dance, despite it being the Sab-
