(Men and women may sometimes, after great effort, achieve a creditable
lie; but the house, which is their temple, cannot say anything save the
truth of those who have lived in it.) A child's cart and a doll lay on the
black-and-white floor, where a rug had been kicked back. I felt that the
children had only just hurried away--to hide themselves, most like--in the
many turns of the great adzed staircase that climbed statelily out of the
hall, or to crouch at gaze behind the lions and roses of the carven
gallery above. Then I heard her voice above me, singing as the blind sing
--from the soul:--
In the pleasant orchard-closes.
And all my early summer came back at the call.
In the pleasant orchard-closes,
God bless all our gains say we--
But may God bless all our losses,
Better suits with our degree,
She dropped the marring fifth line, and repeated--
Better suits with our degree!
I saw her lean over the gallery, her linked hands white as pearl against
the oak.
"Is that you--from the other side of the county?" she called.
"Yes, me--from the other side of the county," I answered laughing.
"What a long time before you had to come here again." She ran down the
stairs, one hand lightly touching the broad rail. "It's two months and
four days. Summer's gone!"
"I meant to come before, but Fate prevented."
"I knew it. Please do something to that fire.
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