stood fairly shuddering. You would never have known his face, Cyril. He was mad, demoniacal. I feel sometimes as if I should burst and shatter to bits like a sky-rocket when I think of it, I’ve got such a weal on my arm.
“I lost Percival Charles’ ninepence, and my nice white cloth out of the basket, and everything, besides having black looks on Thursday because it was mutton chops, which he hates. Oh, Cyril, ‘I wish I was a cassowary, on the banks of the Timbuctoo.’ When I saw Meg sobbing over that lad—thank goodness he wasn’t hurt—! I wished our Georgie was dead; I do now, also; I wish we only had to remember him. I haven’t been to see them lately—can’t stand Meg’s ikeyness. I wonder how it all will end.
“There’s P. C. bidding ‘Good-night and God Bless You’ to Brother Jakes, and no supper ready——”
As soon as I could, after reading Alice’s letter, I went down to Eberwich to see how things were, Memories of the old days came over me again till my heart hungered for its old people.
They told me at the “Hollies” that, after a bad attack of delirium tremens, George had been sent to Papplewick in the lonely country to stay with Emily, I borrowed a bicycle to ride the nine miles. The summer had been wet, and everything was late. At the end of September the foliage was heavy green, and the wheat stood dejectedly in stook. I rode through the still sweetness of an autumn morning. The mist was folded blue along the hedges; the elm trees loomed up along the dim walls of the morning, the horsechestnut trees at hand flickered with a few yellow leaves like bright blossoms. As I rode through
