An aged donkey and some geese were
feeding near them, but there was no one in sight. The old gammers
and gaffers of the village were sitting by their firesides, for, in
spite of the sunshine, the air was cold, and more than once Verity
shivered as she sat.
"This wind is too cold for you, my child," he said presently; "let
us walk on." But she shook her head.
"No, please let us stay a little longer. I do so love this village.
If I were an artist I would paint it. Amias," interrupting herself,
"there is something I want to say to you. I have been at dear
Colbrook seven months--seven happy, beautiful months--but I am well
now, and quite strong, and it is time for me to work and get my own
living."
Verity spoke with great determination, but he noticed that her lips
were white and drawn, and that there was a strained look in her
eyes, and a sort of pitiful feeling came over him, such as a mother
would feel for a suffering child. In spite of her brave words, he
knew how she dreaded to face the world, though her womanly pride and
spirit would prevent her from telling him so.
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