He did not let her see him coming but "stalked"
her behind the trees and bushes until he found where she was
waiting, and then thrust his face between the branches of a tall
shrub near her and laughed the outright laugh she loved. And when
she turned she was looking straight into the clear blue she had
tried to see when she fell asleep. "Donal! Donal!" she cried like
a little bird with but one note.
The lilac and the snowball were in blossom and there was a big
hawthorn tree which smelt sweet and sweet. They could not see the
drift of smuts on the blossoms, they only smelled the sweetness
and sat under the hawthorn and sniffed and sniffed. The sun was
deliciously warm and a piano organ was playing beautifully not
far away. They sat close to each other, so close that the picture
book could lie open on both pairs of knees and the warmth of each
young body penetrated the softness of the other. Sometimes Donal
threw an arm around her as she bent over the page. Love and
caresses were not amazements to him; he accepted them as parts of
the normal joy of life. To Robin they were absolute wonder. The
pictures were delight and amazement in one. Donal knew all about
them and told her stories. She felt that such splendour could have
emanated only from him. It could not occur to her that he had not
invented them and made the pictures. He showed her Robinson Crusoe
and Robin Hood.
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