When he came back she had gone into her room. There was nothing more
for either of them to say. There was nothing to do, except to hope for
a sail, since they no longer hoped for an awakening.

XII

Speech is but broken light upon the depth Of the unspoken.

GEORGE ELIOT.

The work on the book progressed rather slowly. Often Adam had to refer
to Robin when his memory was at fault. At first she had gone away, to
leave him alone with his work, but as he referred to her more
frequently, she sat with him, sewing while he wrote, a frame of
morning-glories back of her, or reading with the keen enjoyment of one
who renews a pleasure long foregone. When he seemed to be going on
smoothly, she sometimes stole away and gave herself up to long hours
with her violin.

One afternoon she tapped on his casement. His work was lagging, and he
rose gladly and went out with her. They walked up the path and through
the gateway to their boulder, and sat down.

"Talk to me," said Adam.

She shook her head. "About what, most worshipful seigneur? For I am
but a worm of the dust before thee, and all my tales are of the homely
tasks of baking and brewing. Naught is there worthy to be set down in
thy book." Then, with a sudden change of manner, "Oh, Adam, there are
eighteen new chickens to-day! The Plymouth Rock hen stole a nest, and
they came off this morning. And there is some news too. The flax is in
bloom. It is so pretty."

"When do you expect to weave your first linen?" asked Adam.

"Oh, I don't know, but it is good to know there will be some to weave.
Do you remember Andersen's story of the flax? I was thinking of it
this morning as I pulled out some weeds, and how when it was pulled up
and cut and hackled, it said: 'One cannot always have good times. One
must make one's experience, and so one comes to know something;' and
when it is woven and cut up and made into garments, it still says, 'If
I have suffered something, I have been made into something. I am
happiest of all. That is a real blessing. Now I shall be of some use
in the world, and that is right, that is a true pleasure.'"

"If one only knew he was to be of some use," Adam said wearily; "if we
could see the justification of our suffering."

"Then we should be as gods," answered Robin. "I like the song of the
flax, 'content, content;' and when the linen is worn out, it is again
tortured and beaten until it becomes paper whereon an eternal word is
wr