She heaves a deep, long sigh, as one off whose heart a great stone's weight had rolled; and the over-brimming drops roll soft and hot over her cheeks. 'And will they never be true again?' she asks, still under her breath; 'are you sure--quite sure of it? I will believe you if you tell me so. Oh, I _want_ to believe you! Dog with a bad name as you are,' breaking into an unsteady laugh--'angry as I was at being sent in to dinner with you--I _want_ to believe you.' The south wind brings a jangle of far church bells to their ears; outside their arbour a starling sits on a tree with its nose in the air, saying odd, short, harsh things; and upon this homely music the souls of Talbot and Peggy on Whit-Sunday float together into love's heaven. CHAPTER XXVII 'We'll lose ourselves in Venus' Groves of Mirtle, When every little bird shall be a Cupid, And sing of Love and Youth; each wind that blows And curls the velvet leaves shall breathe Delights, The wanton springs shall call us to their Banks, And on the perfum'd Flowers we'll feast our Senses; Yet we'll walk by, untainted of their Pleasures, And, as they were pure Temples, we'll talk in them.' The shadows have put on their evening length. Even Minky, as he stands with his little face pushed through the bars of his gate, barking at the servants as they return from church--a mere civility on his part, an asking them, as it were, how they enjoyed the sermon--boasts one that would not disgrace a greyhound or a giraffe. 'Are you there, Prue?' softly asks a voice, coming out of the darkening green world outside; coming with an atmosphere of freshness, of dew, of hawthorn, into the little hall, and peering toward the fireside-settle, which, both from the waning light and its own position, hints but dimly that it has an occupant. 'Are you asleep?' 'I do not know,' replies a disconsolate small treble. 'I tried to go to sleep, to get over some of the time. Oh dear, what a long Sunday it has been! Is he gone?' struggling up into a sitting posture out of her enveloping shawls. 'Yes.' 'And you did not sit under our tree?' 'No.' 'How laconic you are!' cries Prue fretfully; 'and I have not exchanged words with a creature since luncheon. Do come here; turn your face to the light. What have you and Mr. Talbot been talking of for the last four hours? John Talbot, as those horrid children call him. I think it is so impertinent of them; but I suppose their mother taught them.' A slight contraction passes over the radiant, dewy face, so docilely turned towards the western shining. 'Peggy!' cries the younger girl in an altered tone, forgetting her invalidhood, and springing off the settle; 'how odd you look! You do not mean to say--is it possible? You do not suppose that I do not see--that you can hide anything from me!'