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No warnin' at all. Muriel, my bicycle's be'ind the
fowlhouse. I'll tell Dr. Dallas, ma'am."
She trundled off on her wheel like a brown bee, while
Sophie--heaven above and earth beneath changed--walked stiffly
home, to fall over George at his letters, in a muddle of laughter
and tears.
"It's all quite natural for them," she gasped. "They come down
like ellum-branches in still weather. Yiss, ma'am.' No, there
wasn't anything in the least horrible, only--only--Oh, George,
that poor shiny stick of his between his poor, thin knees! I
couldn't have borne it if Scottie had howled. I didn't know the
vicar was so--so sensitive. He said he was afraid it was
ra--rather a shock. Mrs. Betts told me to go home, and I wanted
to collapse on her floor. But I didn't disgrace myself. I--I
couldn't have left him--could I?"
"You're sure you've took no 'arm?" cried Mrs. Cloke, who had
heard the news by farm-telegraphy, which is older but swifter
than Marconi's.
"No. I'm perfectly well," Sophie protested.


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