“What do they mean, do you think?” said Lettie in a low voice, as her white fingers touched the flowers, and her black furs fell on them.
“There are not so many this year,” said Leslie.
“They remind me of mistletoe, which is never ours, though we wear it,” said Emily to me.
“What do you think they say—what do they make you think, Cyril?” Lettie repeated.
“I don’t know. Emily says they belong to some old wild lost religion. They were the symbol of tears, perhaps, to some strange hearted Druid folk before us.”
“More than tears,” said Lettie. “More than tears, they are so still. Something out of an old religion, that we have lost. They make me feel afraid.”
“What should you have to fear?” asked Leslie.
“If I knew I shouldn’t fear,” she answered.
“Look at all the snowdrops”—they hung in dim, strange flecks among the dusky leaves—“look at them—closed up, retreating, powerless. They belong to some knowledge we have lost, that I have lost and that I need. I feel afraid. They seem like something in fate. Do you think, Cyril, we can lose things off the earth—like mastodons, and those old monstrosities—but things that matter—wisdom?”
“It is against my creed,” said I.
“I believe I have lost something,” said she.
“Come,” said Leslie, “don’t trouble with fancies. Come with me to the bottom of this cup, and see how strange it will be, with the sky marked with branches like a filigree lid.”
