"
Rosalie was very quiet, but when, having left the room to prepare to go
to the village, Betty came back to say a last word, her sister came to
her and laid her hand on her arm.
"I have been so weak and trodden upon for years that it would not be
natural for you to quite trust me," she said. "But I won't fail you,
Betty--I won't."
The winter was drawing in, the last autumn days were short and often
grey and dreary; the wind had swept the leaves from the trees and
scattered them over park lands and lanes, where they lay a mellow-hued,
rustling carpet, shifting with each chill breeze that blew. The berried
briony garlands clung to the bared hedges, and here and there flared
scarlet, still holding their red defiantly until hard frosts should come
to shrivel and blacken them. The rare hours of sunshine were amber hours
instead of golden.
As she passed through the park gate Betty was thinking of the first
morning on which she had walked down the village street between the
irregular rows of red-tiled cottages with the ragged little enclosing
gardens. Then the air and sunshine had been of the just awakening
spring, now the sky was brightly cold, and through the small-paned
windows she caught glimpses of fireglow.
Pages:
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834