He would not come back running. He was
GONE!
There was no Andrews to hear. Hidden in the shadow under the shrubs,
the rattle and roar of the street outside the railing drowned her
mad little cries. All she had never done before, she did then. Her
hands beat on the damp mould and tore at it--her small feet beat
it and dug into it. She cried, she sobbed; the big lump in her
throat almost strangled her--she writhed and did not know she was
writhing. Her tears pouring forth wet her hair, her face, her dress.
She did not cry out, "Donal! Donal!" because he was nowhere--nowhere.
If Andrews had seen her she would have said she was "in a tantrum,"
But she was not. The world had been torn away.
A long time afterwards, as it seemed to her, she crawled out from
under the shrubs, carrying her pretty flopping hat in her earth-stained
hand. It was not pretty any more. She had been lying on it and it
was crushed and flat. She crept slowly round the curve to Anne.
Seeing her, Anne sprang to her feet. The rose was a piteous thing
beaten to earth by a storm. The child's face was swollen and stained,
her hair was tangled and damp there were dark marks of mould on
her dress, her hat, her hands, her white cheeks; her white shoes
were earth-stained also, and the feet in the rose-coloured socks
dragged themselves heavily--slowly.
"My gracious!" the young woman almost shrieked.
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