There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. If the boy did not love the girl, why the devil had he dragged her into this marriage? Spurlock was a bit shaky bodily, but his brain was functioning clearly; and, it might be added, swiftly—as the brain always acts when confronted by a perplexing riddle. By a sort of instinct. Then there was also the horse. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon.
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