There was a chair near; he drew it toward her, and sat down, steadying
the swing with one hand on the chain.
"Dearest," he said under his breath, "I am very selfish to have done
this; but I--I thought--perhaps--you might have cared enough to--to
venture--"
"I do care; you are very cruel to me." The voice was childishly broken
and muffled. He looked down at her, slowly realising that it was a child
he still was dealing with--a child with a child's innocence, repelled by
the graver phase of love, unresponsive to the deeper emotions,
bewildered by the glimpse of the mature role his attitude had compelled
her to accept. That she already had reached that mile-stone and, for a
moment, had turned involuntarily to look back and find her childhood
already behind her, frightened her.
Thinking, perhaps, of his own years, and of what lay behind him, he
sighed and looked out over the waste of moorland where the Atlantic was
battering the sands of Surf Point. Then his patient gaze shifted to the
east, and he saw the surface of Sky Pond, blue as the eyes of the girl
who lay crouching in the cushioned corner of the swinging seat, small
hands clinched over the handkerchief--a limp bit of stuff damp with her
tears.
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