Those gloves and things of hers, why did they have so much of her about them? And why did the trees and the birds conspire together so openly? And why when he was alone did some presence--some companion of days that were dead now, because he could not remember them--why did she come and walk with him and sit by his side and make him understand dimly through his blindness? Mamma would come upon them when they were alone together sometimes, and she would say that he must not become morbid. And she would talk and talk until the longing went away. Was that what it was--a longing? Would he come upon it suddenly? There was no pain in his memory of her; if there had been it would have driven her away. That was why it was so lucky he had never known her, another illusion would have gone. Why did he go on thinking these things? Then it was lucky perhaps that he could not see any more, that the little boy had taken his sight away. For she was nearer than she had ever been before, now that he was blind. Evening was coming and with it the soft, harping rain, rustling, rustling. A bird was muttering liquidly, gently somewhere, and it was very like the night--kind, strange. And she was here with the feel of the air, and June was to-morrow, tangible as the sunlight. He shivered, and getting up he went into the house. CHAPTER II WALKING OUT “MY name isn’t June, it’s Joan, and always was.” “But do you mind my calling you June? I think June is such a lovely name, so much nicer than Joan. You are just like June, too.” “Why should I be like June? You are silly. But I don’t mind. You can have your own way if you like, though I don’t know why you shouldn’t like Joan, which is my name whether you like it or not.” “That is the only reason why I like it.” “You are clever.” “But when June is your name I like it better than all other names, don’t you?” “No, I don’t.” “Oh, well, I will call you Joan, if June is not to your fancy.” “No, have it your own way.” “That is most awfully nice of you. I ... No.” It was not going too well. It was so hard to find anything to talk about, and she was not easy. There was a terribly strained feeling in the air, they were feeding on each other’s shyness. But it would be better next time. The ice must break. “Where are we now?” “We’re just coming to the stile into Mr. Cume’s orchard.” “Then it was here that the bulldog attacked a cow. Most alarming it was. Flew at her nose.” “No, he didn’t, did he?” “Yes, but I pulled him off. Do you like bulldogs?” “I don’t know, I haven’t seen very many. I only saw yours once or twice, and then he rather frightened me.” “He was so tame, really.” There was a pause. They walked on. “Do you like dogs?” “I don’t know. No.” “You don’t like dogs! Oh, June, I love them.” “I like cats.” “No, I don’t like cats. They are so funny and mysterious, or is that just what you like about them?” “Father doesn’t like cats, either.” “Doesn’t he?” “No, he doesn’t!”