"Nothing like thought, Norah. I believe you've got a good little
thinking-box under all this pretty hair, and you can't use it too
much, my dear--specially so long as you're thinking about others."
Norah, with her blue eyes fixed on the venerated master's face, seemed
to tremble joyously under the caress and the compliment. She and the
children came out into the front garden and stood at the gate to watch
Dale march away down the white road. He looked grandly stiff, black
and large, in his ceremonious costume--a daddy and a master to be
proud of.
He went only half-way to Rodchurch, and then sitting on a gate
opposite the Baptist chapel indulged himself with another pipe. He
made his halt here because several times when he had gone farther he
had found Mavis accompanied by old Rodchurch acquaintances who had
volunteered to escort her for a portion of the homeward journey, and
he felt no inclination for this sort of chance society.
Not a human being, not even the smallest sign of a man's habitation,
was in sight; not a movement of bird or beast could be perceived in
the stretching expanse of flat fields, across which huge cloud shadows
passed slowly; the broad white road on either hand seemed to lead from
nowhere to nowhere, and Dale, meditatively puffing out his tobacco
smoke and watching it rise and vanish, had that sense of deep and
almost solemn restfulness which comes whenever we realize that for any
reason we are cut off from the possibility of communication with our
kind.
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