“How old are you?” “Sixteen. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. Capes. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them.
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