Presently the newspaper
dropped from his hand, and he passed out into the morning sunshine, and
walked down the flagged path dividing the lawn, the mosses growing grey
and green between the stones.
It was a morning of unclouded skies, the soft air laden with the scent of
flowers. A morning to be alive in--yes, to be happy in, spite of regrets
and doubts and cares; spite, even, of death and loss and buried love. On
such a morning a man might think of his dead wife, perhaps. Might say to
himself, "the pity of it!" but he could but be conscious that he, himself,
was alive still; that in him, solemn, responsible, middle-aged as he might
be, the fires of youth were not yet extinguished. He must feel the
fragrant wind upon his cheek, the scent of delicious airs in his nostrils,
must even, in spite of himself, use the eyes in his head to see what was
fair and sweet and gracious.
Jarvis, with his finger to his cap, retreated to his carnation-house, the
entrance of which he had been guarding.
"So you are leaving us?" Sir Francis began at once, stopping before
Deleah. "My sister has been telling me. We shall miss you very much."
"I shall never forget how good you have both been to me," Deleah said in
her shy voice, and playing with the flowers in her hands.
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