A dozen or fifteen small blue-cloaks
were romping joyously under one of the verandas, and perhaps twenty of
the bigger blue-cloaks were soberly parading two by two in a cloister.
Nothing carried him back so promptly and surely as the sight of these
blue-cloaked girls, and scarcely a day ever passed without his seeing
them. Two by two they were incessantly tramping the roads for miles
round. He could not walk, ride, or drive without meeting them. When he
heard their footsteps and knew that they were coming marching by
Vine-Pits, he turned his back to the office window, or went into the
depths of granary or stable. He had hated that day when Mavis brought
them off the road and into the heart of his home.
With the sound of their shrill cries and merry laughter lingering in
his ears he rode on.
What a hideous and damnable mockery! This was the monument of that
good kind man, the late Mr. Barradine. Every red tile, every dab of
white paint, every square inch of clean gravel, gave substance and
solidity to the lasting fame of that dear sweet gentleman. Visitors
to the neighborhood always stopped their carriages or motor cars
outside the Orphanage gates, questioned and gaped, sent in their
cards, begged for permission to go all over it.
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