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There was a long pause, a pause in which the drone of Piqueur's voice, still singing Maitre Guedron's old song, floated through the open casement. "Not living?" questioned Felicia, her eyes widening with frightened comprehension "Oh! Oh!" her voice rose tempestuously, angrily, "You shall not say such dreadful things! They are not true!
A slender black- haired, eager-eyed dryad, whose shabby brocaded dressing gown trailed around her bandaged foot "Oh, wait! wait!" she cried, "Wait until I can do it " her lips pursed themselves delicately and a second later the lilting trill of her lovely whistle took up the refrain of Maitre Guedron's song. She stretched out her young hands toward the woods.
The rest of them fled through the kitchen doorway, or rather Molly O'Reilly adroitly pushed them through it and for the next half hour the household babbled discreetly behind drawn blinds. But outside in the wee garden the years slipped back as though they had been Time in Maitre Guedron's song. "Dudley Hamilt! Dear Dudley Hamilt! You are hurting my arms a little " "Felice! Forgive me!
And the years slipped away like Time in Maitre Guedron's song and every year the garden grew a little lovelier and every year Felicia grew a little more sedate and every year Piqueur and the Major grew "too old." Until Piqueur no longer left his fireside and as for the Major well, there came a day when the Major fell prostrate by the staircase and lay for a long time breathing very hard.
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