"That 't is no wonder you are so soft!" said she.
"Soft?" I repeated indignantly.
"Yes, soft, Peregrine, and so green--so precious green! You've never
had a chance."
"Of what?"
"Of living. And your Aunt Julia's a fool!"
"Diana--!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked.
"Such a fool, Peregrine, that I'm greatly minded to let you marry me
just to see my lady's face when I take ye back and say, 'Ma'm, here's
your precious Peregrine married to a girl o' the roads, ma'm, and
a-going to be a man in spite o' you, ma'm!' Oh, tush! And now let's go
on--unless you'm minded to sleep in the wood yonder and no supper."
"As you will!" said I stiffly.
And so, when she had donned her stockings and shoes, we continued our
way together, though in silence now.
CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH I LEARNED THAT I AM LESS OF A COWARD THAN I HAD SUPPOSED
There is, I think, a wistful sadness in the fall of evening, a vague
regret for the fading glories of the day which, passing out of our
lives for ever, leaves us so much the richer or poorer, the nobler or
more unworthy, according to the use we have made of the opportunities
it has offered us for the doing of good or evil.
Thus I walked pensive through the solemn evening stillness, watching
the shadows gathering and the sky slowly deepen to a glimmering dusk,
wherein the first faint stars peeped.
Suddenly, from the mysteries of sombre trees hard by, stole the
plaintive notes of a blackbird singing, as it were, in poignant, sweet
farewell:
'This day, with its joys and sorrows, its pain and travail, its
possibilities for works good or evil, is passed away.
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