“uttering joyous leaves.” My mother was in the midst of her garden, lifting the dusky faces of the auriculas to look at the velvet lips, or tenderly taking a young weed from the black soil. The thrushes were calling and clamouring all round. The japonica flamed on the wall as the light grew thicker; the tassels of white cherry-blossom swung gently in the breeze.
“What shall I do, mother?” said Lettie, as she wandered across the grass to pick at the japonica flowers. “What shall I do?—there’s nothing to do.”
“Well, my girl—what do you want to do? You have been moping about all day—go and see somebody.”
“It’s such a long way to Eberwich.”
“Is it? Then go somewhere nearer.”
Lettie fretted about with restless, petulant indecision.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, “And I feel as if I might just as well never have lived at all as waste days like this. I wish we weren’t buried in this dead little hole—I wish we were near the town—it’s hateful having to depend on about two or three folk for your—your—your pleasure in life.”
“I can’t help it, my dear—you must do something for yourself.”
“And what can I do?—I can do nothing.”
“Then I’d go to bed.”
“That I won’t—with the dead weight of a wasted day on me. I feel as if I’d do something desperate.”
“Very well, then,” said mother, “do it, and have done.”
