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Morris, William, 1834-1896

"The Roots of the Mountains; Wherein Is Told Somewhat of the Lives of the Men of Burgdale"

And yet he was somewhat wroth with her, that she had come upon
him so suddenly, and spoken to him with such mastery, and in so few
words, and he with none to make answer to her, and that she had so
marred his pleasure and his hope of that fair day. Then he sat him
down again on the flowery bank, and little by little his heart
softened, and he once more called to mind many a time when they had
been there before, and the plays and the games they had had together
there when they were little. And he bethought him of the days that
were long to him then, and now seemed short to him, and as if they
were all grown together into one story, and that a sweet one. Then
his breast heaved with a sob, and the tears rose to his eyes and
burned and stung him, and he fell a-weeping for that sweet tale, and
wept as he had wept once before on that old dyke when there had been
some child's quarrel between them, and she had gone away and left
him.
Then after a while he ceased his weeping, and looked about him lest
anyone might be coming, and then he arose and went to and fro in the
chestnut-grove for a good while, and afterwards went his ways from
that meadow, saying to himself: 'Yet remaineth to me the morrow of
to-morrow, and that is the first of the days of the watching for the
token.


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