There was a warm stillness, and just
there, under these trees, there were no rabbits which could have
comforted her with their living forms scuttling to and fro.
She tried to reason calmly. Motors were uncertain things--this one might
have broken down, and that had delayed her lover. She must not stir, in
case he should come and think his lateness had frightened her and that
she had gone back to the house. Whatever befell, she must be brave and
true.
But at last, when the afternoon shadows were lengthening, the agony
became intense. Only the baker had passed with his cart, and a farm
wagon or two, during the whole day. Gradually the conviction grew that
it could not only be an accident to the motor--if so, John would have
procured some other vehicle, or, indeed, he could have come to her on
foot by now. Something had befallen him. There must have occurred some
accident to himself; and in spite of all her calm fortitude, anguish
clutched her soul.
She knew not what to do or which way to go. At last, as the sun began to
sink, faint and weary, she decided the orchard house would be the best
place.
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