Some one was standing beside him. Wood was once a favourite of yours. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. John eased off. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one.
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