Yet he was
a man of little charm. He certainly had a remarkable gift for
estranging his friends. He was a foe to the most innocent compromise.
For myself, I found not much humour in him, no eye for grace or art,
and a limited imagination that was yet his absolute master.
Nevertheless, as you hint, these fellows, no more than I, can forget
him. Nor you?" He turned to the other.
"Christian," he replied, "I remember him. We were friends a little
while. Faithful I knew also. Faithful was to the last my friend. Ah!
Reverie, then--how many years ago!--there was a child we loved, all
three: do you remember? I see the low, green wall, cool from how many
a summer's shadows, the clusters of green apples on the bough. And in
the early morning we would go, carrying torn-off branches, and
shouting our songs through the fields, till we came to the shadow and
the hush of the woods. Ay, Reverie, and we would burst in on silence,
each his heart beating, and play there. And perhaps it was Hopeful who
would steal away from us, and the others play on; or perhaps you into
the sunlight that maddened the sheltered bird to flit and sing in the
orchard where the little child we loved played--not yet sad, but how
much beloved; not yet weary of passing shadows, and simple creatures,
and boy's rough gifts and cold hands.
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