upon me this last three months especially . . . I have been cruel to him.”
“Well—we’ll go to him now, shall we?” I said.
“To-morrow—to-morrow,” she replied, noticing me really for the first time. “I go in the morning.”
“And I’ll go with you.”
“Yes—in the morning. Lettie has her party to Chatsworth—don’t tell her—we won’t tell her.”
“No,” said I.
Shortly after, my mother went upstairs. Lettie came in rather late from Highclose; Leslie did not come in. In the morning they were going with a motor party into Matloch and Chatsworth, and she was excited, and did not observe anything.
After all, mother and I could not set out until the warm, tempered afternoon. The air was full of a soft yellowness when we stepped down from the train at Cossethay. My mother insisted on walking the long two miles to the village. We went slowly along the road, lingering over the little red flowers in the high hedge-bottom up the hillside. We were reluctant to come to our destination. As we came in sight of the little grey tower of the church, we heard the sound of braying, brassy music. Before us, filling a little croft, the Wakes was in full swing.
Some wooden horses careered gaily round, and the swingboats leaped into the mild blue sky. We sat upon the stile, my mother and I, and watched. There were booths, and cocoanut shies and roundabouts scattered in the small field. Groups of children moved quietly from attraction to attraction. A deeply tanned man came across the field swinging two dripping buckets of water. Women looked from
