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"I tried to pick out the softest spot on the rug," she complained whimsically, "but there wasn't any other way to wake her up. And I simply had to have some sympathy. Oo-oo-ooh, Wynnie's freezing!" Agnes had returned to her brushes and was wiping them dry in heartless silence. "Wynnie's freezing, I say." "Say it again," counseled the other's calm voice.
"Don't you like him, Harry?" "Yes. I like him very much." "Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" "I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." "I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. "Don't you think they might do each other good?" Still I could not reply.
In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's behaving so childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, saying, with a little choke in her voice "I see it's no use trying.
It had faded from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God.
Wynnie's face was bright with the brightness of the morning star, ever growing pale and faint over the amber ocean that brightens at the sun's approach; for life looked to Wynnie severe in its light, and somewhat sad because severe.
The sun had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea had turned a little slaty; the yellow flowers in the short down-grass no longer caught the eye with their gold, and the wind that bent their tops had just the suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie's face looked a little cloudy too, I thought, and I feared that it was my fault.
It was a lovely morning, with just a tint of autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all else was of the summer, brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. "You said you would show me a poem of Vaughan, I think you said, was the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," said Turner. "I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered.
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