Athalie

Spring ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athalie

did not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so she

let Clive go alone on tours of inspection.

But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away from

Athalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on,

practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, and

advice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much.

In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her time

among her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. On

his return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find her

there, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sun

with Hafiz purring on her lap.

And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in which

glimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise and

disapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: "Well, C.

Bailey, Junior! Where do you come from now?"

The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endless

source of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at the

pale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall and

watching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom.

And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey iris

unfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisite

mingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her as

no perfume, no colour had ever affected her.

The little colonies of lily-of-the-valley came into delicate bloom

under the fringing shrubbery; golden bell flower, pink and vermilion

cydonia, roses, all bloomed and had their day; lilac bushes were

weighted with their heavy, dewy clusters; the sweet-brier's green

tracery grew into tender leaf and its matchless perfume became

apparent when the sun fell hot.

In the warm air there seemed to brood the exquisite hesitation of

happy suspense,--a delicious and breathless sense of waiting for

something still more wonderful to come.

And when Athalie felt it stealing over her she looked at Clive and

knew that he also felt it. Then her slim hand would steal into his and

nestle there, content, fearless, blissfully confident of what was to

be.

But it was subtly otherwise with Clive. Once or twice she felt his

hand tremble slightly as though a slight shiver had passed over him;

and when again she noticed it she asked him why.

"Nothing," he said in a strained voice; "I am very, very happy."