a cloud seemed to
come over her sky, and she reached home dejected.

In the garden of the Freelands' old house was a nook shut away by
berberis and rhododendrons, where some bees were supposed to make honey,
but, knowing its destination, and belonging to a union, made no more
than they were obliged. In this retreat, which contained a rustic bench,
Nedda was accustomed to sit and read; she went there now. And her eyes
began filling with tears. Why must the poor old fellow who had driven
her look so anxious and call on God to bless her for giving him that
little present? Why must people grow old and helpless, like that
Grandfather Gaunt she had seen at Becket? Why was there all the tyranny
that made Derek and Sheila so wild? And all the grinding poverty that
she herself could see when she went with her mother to their Girls'
Club, in Bethnal Green? What was the use of being young and strong if
nothing happened, nothing was really changed, so that one got old and
died seeing still the same things as before? What was the use even of
loving, if love itself had to yield to death? The trees! How they grew
from tiny seeds to great and beautiful things, and then slowly, slowly
dried and decayed away to dust. What was the good of it all? What
comfort was there in a God so great and universal that he did not care
to keep her and Derek alive and loving forever, and was not interested
enough to see that the poor old cab-driver should not be haunted day and
night with fear of the workhouse for himself and an old wife, perhaps?
Nedda's tears fell fast, and how far THIS was Chardonnet no one could
tell.

Felix, seeking inspiration from the sky in regard to 'The Last of the
Laborers,' heard a noise like sobbing, and, searching, found his little
daughter sitting there and crying as if her heart would break. The sight
was so unusual and so utterly disturbing that he stood rooted, quite
unable to bring her help. Should he sneak away? Should he go for Flora?
What should he do? Like many men whose work keeps them centred within
themselves, he instinctively avoided everything likely to pain or
trouble him; for this reason, when anything did penetrate those
mechanical defences he became almost strangely tender. Loath, for
example, to believe that any one was ill, if once convinced of it,
he made so good a nurse that Flora, at any rate, was in the habit of
getting well with suspicious alacrity. Thoroughly moved now, he sat down
on the bench b