no harm had she not been, singer. Nor
would your story have suffered, being, like all stories, a thing as
important as thistledown. In either event, though Peter had perished,
or misunderstood her for ever, it would not have concerned me a whit.
Or even in both events.

Jessica: Nor me.

Jane: Nor me.

Martin: Then farewell my story. A thing as important as thistledown is
as unimportantly dismissed. And yonder in heaven the moon sulks at us
through a cloud with a quarter of her eye, reproaching us for our
peace-destroying chatter. It destroys our own no less than hers. To
dream is forbidden, but at least let us sleep.

One by one the milkmaids settled in the grass and covered their faces
with their hands, and went to sleep. But Jennifer remained where she
was. She sat with downcast eyes, softly drawing the grassblade through
and through her fingers, and the swing swayed a little like a branch
moving in an imperceptible wind, and her breast heaved a little as
though stirred with inaudible sighs. She sat so long like that that
Martin knew she had forgotten he was beside her, and he quietly put out
his hand to draw the grassblade from hers. But before he had even
touched it he felt something fall upon his palm that was not rain or
dew.

"Dear Mistress Jennifer," said Martin gently, "why do you weep?"

She shook her head, since there are times when the voice plays a girl
false, and will not serve her.

"Is it," said Martin, "because the grass is not green enough?"

She nodded.

"Pray let me judge," entreated Martin, and took the grassblade from her
fingers. Whereupon she put her face into her two hands, whispering:

"Master Pippin, Master Pippin, oh, Master Pippin."

"Let me judge," said Martin again, but in a whisper too.

Then Jennifer took her hands from her wet face, and looked at him with
her wet eyes, and said with great braveness and much faltering:

"I will be nineteen in November."

At this Martin looked very grave, and he got down from the tree and
walked to the end of the orchard full of thought. But when he turned
there he found that she had stolen after him, and was standing near him
hanging her head, yet watching him with deep anxiety.

Jennifer: It is t-t-too old, isn't it?

Martin: Too old for what?

Jennifer: I--I--I don't know.

Martin: It is, of course, extremely old. There are things you will
never be able to do again, because you are so old.

Jennifer sobbed.

Martin: You a