Chapter 8 - Page 2

think. What she thought about was Donal's face, his
delightful eyes, his white forehead with curly hair pushed back
with his Highland bonnet. His plaid swung about when he ran and
jumped. When he held her tight the buttons of his jacket hurt her
a little because they pressed against her body. What was "Mother"
like? Did he kiss her? What pretty stones there were in his clasps
and buckles! How nice it was to hear him laugh and how fond he
was of laughing. Donal! Donal! Donal! He liked to play with her
though she was a girl and so little. He would play with her tomorrow.
His cheeks were bright pink, his hair was bright, his eyes were
bright. He was all bright. She tried to see into the blueness of
his eyes again as it seemed when they looked at each other close
to. As she began to see the clear colour she fell asleep.

The power which had on the first morning guided Robin to the
seclusion behind the clump of shrubs and had provided Andrews with
an enthralling companion, extended, the next day, an even more
beneficient and complete protection. Andrews was smitten with a
cold so alarming as to confine her to bed. Having no intention of
running any risks, whatsoever, she promptly sent for a younger
sister who, temporarily being "out of place", came into the house
as substitute. She was a pretty young woman who assumed no special
responsibilities and was fond of reading novels.

"She's been trained to be no trouble, Anne. She'll amuse herself
without bothering you as long as you keep her out," Andrews said
of Robin.

Anne took "Lady Audley's Secret" with her to the Gardens and,
having led her charge to a shady and comfortable seat which exactly
suited her, she settled herself for a pleasant morning.

"Now, you can play while I read," she said to Robin.

As they had entered the Gardens they had passed, not far from the
gate, a bench on which sat a highly respectable looking woman who
was hemming a delicate bit of cambric, and evidently in charge of
two picture books which lay on the seat beside her. A fine boy in
Highland kilts was playing a few yards away. Robin felt something
like a warm flood rush over her and her joy was so great and
exquisite that she wondered if Anne felt her hand trembling. Anne
did not because she was looking at a lady getting into a carriage
across the street.

The marvel of that early summer morning in the gardens of a
splendid but dingy London square thing was not a thing for which
human words could find expression. It was not an earthly thing,
or, at least, not a thing belonging to an earth grown old. A child
Adam and Eve might have known something like it in the Garden of
Eden. It was as clear and