da planted her arms on the window-sill,
with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands meet cup-shaped beneath her
chin. Love! To have somebody with whom she could share everything--some
one to whom and for whom she could give up--some one she could protect
and comfort--some one who would bring her peace. Peace, rest--from what?
Ah! that she could not make clear, even to herself. Love! What would
love be like? Her father loved her, and she loved him. She loved her
mother; and Alan on the whole was jolly to her--it was not that. What
was it--where was it--when would it come and wake her, and kiss her to
sleep, all in one? Come and fill her as with the warmth and color, the
freshness, light, and shadow of this beautiful May evening, flood her
as with the singing of those birds, and the warm light sunning the apple
blossoms. And she sighed. Then--as with all young things whose attention
after all is but as the hovering of a butterfly--her speculation was
attracted to a thin, high-shouldered figure limping on a stick, away
from the house, down one of the paths among the apple-trees. He wavered,
not knowing, it seemed, his way. And Nedda thought: 'Poor old man, how
lame he is!' She saw him stoop, screened, as he evidently thought, from
sight, and take something very small from his pocket. He gazed, rubbed
it, put it back; what it was she could not see. Then pressing his hand
down, he smoothed and stretched his leg. His eyes seemed closed. So a
stone man might have stood! Till very slowly he limped on, passing out
of sight. And turning from the window, Nedda began hurrying into her
evening things.

When she was ready she took a long time to decide whether to wear her
mother's lace or keep it for the Bigwigs. But it was so nice and creamy
that she simply could not take it off, and stood turning and turning
before the glass. To stand before a glass was silly and old-fashioned;
but Nedda could never help it, wanting so badly to be nicer to look at
than she was, because of that something that some day was coming!

She was, in fact, pretty, but not merely pretty--there was in her face
something alive and sweet, something clear and swift. She had still that
way of a child raising its eyes very quickly and looking straight at you
with an eager innocence that hides everything by its very wonder; and
when those eyes looked down they seemed closed--their dark lashes were
so long. Her eyebrows were wide apart, arching with a slight angle,