r. Diana sewed on, till another slight
sound mingled with those--the tread of a foot on the gravel walk down
below; then she lifted her head suddenly, and with that her hands and
her work fell into her lap. It was long past mid-afternoon, and the
lovely slant light striking over the roses and coming through the crown
of a young elm, fell upon Basil, who was slowly sauntering along the
garden walk with his little girl in his arms. Very slowly, and often
standing still to exchange love passages and indulge mutual admiration
with her. They were partly talking of the flowers, Diana could see; but
her own eyes had no vision but for those two, the baby and the baby's
father. One little fair fat arm was round Basil's neck, the other tiny
hand was sometimes stretched out towards the lilies or the laburnums in
critical or delighted notice-taking, the word accompaniment to which
Diana could not hear but could well guess; at other times it was
brought round ecstatically to join its companion round her father's
neck, or lifted to his face with fingers of caressing, or thrust in
among the locks of his hair, which last seemed to be a favourite
pleasure. Basil would stand still at such times and talk to her, or
wait, Diana knew with just what a smile in his eyes, to take the soft
touches and return them. Diana's work was forgotten, and her eyes were
riveted; why did the scene in the garden give her such pain? She would
have said, if she had been asked, that it was self-reproach and sorrow
for the inevitable. How came it that she held not as near a place to
Basil as her child did? She ought, but it was not so. She thought, she
wished she loved him! She ought to be as free to put her hand on the
soft curls of Basil's hair as her baby was, but they stood too far
apart from each other, and she would as soon have dared anything. And
Basil never looked at _her_ so now-a-days; he had found out how she
felt, and knew she did not care for his looks; and kind, and gentle,
and unselfish as he was, yes, and strong in self-command and self
renunciation, he had resigned his life-hope and left her to her
life-sorrow. Yet Diana knew, with every smile and kiss to the little
one, what a cry of Basil's heart went out towards the child's mother.
Only, he would never give that cry utterance again. "What can I do?"
thought Diana. "I cannot bear it. And he thinks I am a great deal more
unhappy than I am. Unhappy?--I am not unhappy--if only _he_ were not
unha