bery. In a minute they'd be through the gate. She drifted swiftly after. There was the place on the gravel where she had found him lying. The pebbles were still scuffed about. But even if the gardener raked the path a thousand times she would never forget that exact spot. They were at the gate. The children were showing him how fine it is for swinging on. All was clear in her mind. She would tell the girls to run ahead, and as they twinkled down the slope she would turn to Martin. Her eyes would tell him everything. . . . No, not everything; but enough to begin with.
Then, I love you, she would say. Softly. She whispered it to herself to be sure she had the right intonation. How long was it since she had said that as it should be said, with amazement and terror? Ten years? Why, a woman ought to be able to say it like that—well, every other year anyhow.
"Don't swing on that gate more than one at a time," she called. "You'll break the hinges." And added, to justify herself in Martin's ears, "Remember, chickens, it's not our gate."
They turned, surprised to see her following.
"Children," she began, "you run ahead, I want"
