put back her head, and the low laughter shook in her throat.
"What!" she asked, putting all the courage and recklessness she had into
the question, and in her soul trembling.
"Not Chloë, not Bacchante. You have always got your soul in your eyes,
such an earnest, troublesome soul."
The laughter faded at once, and her great seriousness looked out again
at me, pleading.
"You are like Burne–Jones' damsels. Troublesome shadows are always
crowding across your eyes, and you cherish them. You think the flesh of
the apple is nothing, nothing. You only care for the eternal pips. Why
don't you snatch your apple and eat it, and throw the core away?"
She looked at me sadly, not understanding, but believing that I in my
wisdom spoke truth, as she always believed when I lost her in a maze of
words. She stooped down, and the chaplet fell from her hair, and only
one bunch of berries remained. The ground around us was strewn with the
four–lipped burrs of beechnuts, and the quaint little nut–pyramids were
scattered among the ruddy fallen leaves. Emily gathered a few nuts.
"I love beechnuts," she said, "but they make me long for my childhood
again till I could almost cry out. To go out for beechnuts before
breakfast; to thread them for necklaces before supper;—to be the envy
of the others at school next day! There was as much pleasure in a beech
necklace then as there is in the whole autumn now—and no sadness. There
are no more unmixed joys after you have grown up." She kept her face to
the ground as she spoke, and she continued to gather the fruits.
"Do you find any with nuts in?" I asked.
"Not many—here—here are two, three. You have them. No—I don't care
about them."
I stripped one of its horny brown coat and gave it to her. She opened
her mouth slightly to take it, looking up into my eyes. Some people,
instead of bringing with them clouds of glory, trail clouds of sorrow;
they are born with "the gift of sorrow"; "sorrows" they proclaim "alone
are real. The veiled grey angels of sorrow work out slowly the beautiful
shapes. Sorrow is beauty, and the supreme blessedness." You read it in
their eyes, and in the tones of their voices. Emily had the gift of
sorrow. It fascinated me, but it drove me to rebellion.
We followed the soft, smooth–bitten turf road under the old beeches. The
hillside fell away, dishevelled with thistles and coarse grass. Soon we
were in sight of the Kennels, the red old Kennels which had been the
scene of so much animation in the time of Lord Byron. They were empty
now, overgrown with weeds. The barred windows of the cottages were grey
with dust; there was no need now to protect the windows from cattle, dog
or man. One of the three houses was inhabited. Clear water trickled
through a wooden runnel into a great stone trough outside near the door.
"Come here," said I to Emily. "Let me fasten the back of your dress."
"Is it undone?" she asked, looking quickly over her shoulder, and
blushing.
As I was engaged in my task, a girl came out of the cottage with a black
kettle and a tea–cup. She was so surprised to see me thus occupied that
she forgot her own duty, and stood open–mouthed.
"S'r Ann! S'r Ann," called a voice from inside. "Are ter goin' ter come
in an' shut that door?"
Sarah Ann hastily poured a few cupfuls of water into the kettle, then
she put down both utensils and stood holding her bare arms to warm them.
Her chief garment consisted of a skirt with grey bodice and red flannel
skirt, very much torn. Her black hair hung in wild tails on to her
shoulders.
"We must go in here," said I, approaching the girl. She, however,
hastily seized the kettle and ran indoors with an "Oh, mother!"
A woman came to the door. One breast was bare, and hung over her blouse,
which, like a dressing–jacket, fell loose over her skirt. Her fading,
red–brown hair was all frowsy from the bed. In the folds of her skirt
clung a swarthy urchin with a shockingly short shirt. He stared at us
with big black
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