But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house.
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