The man talked about Nature as a little child talks of its
mother. He had deemed himself entirely in the right; yet something--not
Nature, she supposed--had told her that he was wrong. But who was she to
judge him? Who was she to say where his conduct erred? He loved truth. It
was not a lie to kiss a girl. He promised nothing. How could he promise
anything or propose anything? Was she not another man's sweetheart? That
doubtless had been the reason why he had said no more than that he loved
her. To love her could be no sin. Nature had told him to; and God knew how
she loved him now.
But she could not make it up with him. A cold curtain seemed to have fallen
between them. The old reserve which had only melted after many meetings,
was upon him again. He stood, as it seemed, on the former pedestal. A
strange, surging sensation filled her head--a sense of helpless fighting
against a flood of unhappy affairs. All the new glory of life was suddenly
tarnished through her own act, and she felt that things could never be the
same again.
She thought and thought. Then John Barron saw Joan's blue eyes begin to
wink ominously, the corners of her bonny mouth drag down and something
bright twinkle over her cheek. He took no notice, and when he looked up
again, she had moved away and was sitting on the grass crying bitterly with
her hands over her face. The sun was bright, a lark sang overhead; from
adjacent inland fields came the jolt and clank of a plow with a man's voice
calling to his horses at the turns.
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