feel them while I write these lines.

Tom looked on for a moment, and then left us, blundering away towards
Raxton, most likely to a beer-house.

He told the child that she was to go home and mind the house until he
returned. He gave her the church key to take home. We two were left
alone in the churchyard, looking at each other in silence, each
waiting for the other to speak. At last she said, demurely,
'Good-bye; father says I must go home.'

And she walked away with a business-like air towards the little white
gate of the churchyard, opening upon what was called 'The Wilderness
Road.' When she reached the gate she threw a look over her shoulder
as she passed through. It was that same look again--wistful, frank,
courageous. I immediately began to follow her, although I did not
know why. When she saw this she stopped for me. I got up to her, and
then we proceeded side by side in perfect silence along the dusty
narrow road, perfumed with the scent of wild rose and honeysuckle.
Suddenly she stopped and said,

'I have left my hat on the tower,' and laughed merrily at her own
heedlessness.

She ran back with an agility which I thought I had never seen
equalled. It made me sad to see her run so fast, though once how it
would have delighted me! I stood still; but when she reached the
church porch she again looked over her shoulder, and again I
followed her:--I did not in the least know why. That look I think
would have made me follow her through lire and water--it _has_ made