“我们走吧。”他说。

    这些象牙色的玫瑰发出一股冷香——一种雪白而纯洁的幽香。不知怎的，让他感到焦急和束缚。两人默默地走着。

    “星期天见。”他平静地说完，就离开她走了。她慢吞吞地往家走，深深地沉浸在这夜的圣洁之中，感到心满意足。他在小路上跌跌撞撞地走着。一走出树林，来到那片开阔的草地，他就呼吸自如了。他开始往家飞奔，心里一片舒畅。

    每当他和米丽亚姆一起出去时，总是很晚才回 来。他知道母亲为此而不满，生他的气——可为什么呢？他不明白。当他进了屋子，扔下帽子时，母亲抬头看了一下钟。她一直坐在那儿想心事，因为眼睛不太好，她不能看书。她能感觉到保罗被这个姑娘勾引了，再说她也不喜欢米丽亚姆。“她是那种一定要把男人的魂儿都勾得一点不剩的女人，”她心里说，“而他竟然听任自己被勾引过去，她决不会让他成为一个男子汉的，永远也不会。”因此，当他和米丽亚姆一起出去时，莫瑞尔太太越来越不满了。

    她看了一眼钟，冷淡而疲倦地说：

    “你今晚出去走得真够远的了。”

    他跟那姑娘来往以后变得热情洋溢、毫无掩饰，现在却一下子畏缩了。

    “你肯定把她送到家了？”母亲说。

    他没回答。莫瑞尔太太飞快地看了他一眼，看见他正气恼地皱着眉，他的头发，因为匆忙，被汗浸湿了搭在额前。

    “她一定非常迷人，迷得你无法离开她，晚上这个时候还要走上八英里。”

    在刚才米丽亚姆的魅力与母亲的烦恼中，他感到左右为难。他本想什么也不说，不回答母亲的问题，可他又硬不下心肠来不理她。

    “我确实喜欢跟她聊天。”他烦躁地说。

    “再没有别人能和你聊天了吗？”

    “如果我和艾德加一起出去，你就不会说什么了。”

    “你知道我还是应该说的。你知道，不论你跟谁一起出去，我都应该说。从诺丁汉回来，天这么晚了，你一路走来未免也太远了。而且，——她的声音突然露出愤怒和轻蔑——“真让人恶心——这么丁点儿的姑娘跟小伙子就谈婚事。”

    “不是求婚。”他大声说。

    “我不知道你还能管它叫什么！”

    “真不是！你以为我们在动手动脚干什么事吗？我们只不过是聊天。”

    “天知道你们聊到何时何地去了。”结束了母亲这么一句挖苦的回答。

    保罗生气地扯着鞋带。

    “你为什么生这么大的气？”他问，“就因为你不喜欢她？”

    “我没说我不喜欢她，但我不赞成小孩子之间就这么密切，从来也不会赞成。”

    “但你不介意安妮跟吉姆·英格出去？”

    “他们比你们理智得多。”

    “为什么？”

    “安妮不是那种卿卿我我的人。”

    他没听懂这句话的意思。不过母亲看起来很疲倦。威廉死后，她的身体一直没有好过，而且眼睛也疼。

    “好吧，”他说，“乡下的景色很漂亮，斯利恩先生问起你，他说他非常挂念你。你现在好一点了吧？”“我早就应该上床去了。”她回答。

    “可是，妈妈，你知道，十点一刻之前你是不会上床的。”

    “哦，不，我应该上床！”

    “哦，小妇人，现在你对我样样不满意，所以你想怎么说就怎么说，是不是？”

    他吻了吻母亲那非常熟悉的前额：眉宇之间已经有了深深的皱纹，飘飘洒洒的秀发已经变成灰白色了，还有那梳得很有气派的鬓角。吻了她之后，他的手还搭在她的肩上。之后，他才慢慢地上了床，他已经忘了米丽亚姆了，他只看到了母亲的头发从温暖、宽阔的额头向后梳去，而且她多少受到一点伤害。

    保罗再次看到米丽亚姆时，他对她说：

    “今天晚上别让我回去得太晚了——不要晚过十点。我妈妈会难过的。”

    “为什么她会难过？”她问。

    “因为她说我得早起，不应该在外面太晚。”

    “好的。”米丽亚姆平静地说，带着淡淡的饥笑的意味。

    他讨厌这样，于是他又像往常一样回去得很晚。

    他和米丽亚姆俩人都不会承认他们之间滋生了爱情。他认为自己很稳重不至如此多情，而她则认为自己非常高尚。他们俩都成熟得很晚，而且心理方面比体力还要晚熟得多。米丽亚姆极为敏感，就像她母亲的为人一般，最轻微的粗俗污秽都会让她慌而不迭地退缩。她的兄弟虽然非常粗鲁，但他们说话从不粗俗。男人们从来都是在外面讨论一切关于牲畜交配的事。但是，也许因为各个农场都不断碰到牲畜繁殖的事，米丽亚姆对这类事更加敏感。即使听到别人对两性关系的稍微暗示，她就心跳加速，并十分厌恶。保罗亦步亦趋地跟着她。他们之间的亲密完全是纯洁的感情。在他们面前连母马怀孕的话都从来不提。

    他十九岁时，每星期只能挣二十先令，但他很快乐。他的画技进步很大，生活也很不错。复活节那天，他组织了一次去铁杉石的远足。同去的有三个同龄的小伙子，还有安妮、亚瑟、米丽亚姆和杰弗里。亚瑟在诺丁汉当电工学徒，回家来度假。莫瑞尔像平常一样一大早就起来了，吹着口哨在院里锯着木头。七点钟时，家里人听见他在买价值三便士的十字形图案的小圆面包，还兴致勃勃地跟那个送面包的女孩子聊着，称她“亲爱的”。他打发走了其它几位拿着果子面包的男孩子，告诉他们，他们的生意已经被这个小姑娘夺走了。这时，莫瑞尔太太起床了，全家人都下了楼。对每个人来说，不是周末却能这样躺在床上睡一大觉真是一种极大的享受，保罗和亚瑟在早饭前看了会儿书，没有梳洗只穿个衬衫就坐下来吃饭，这又是节日的另一种享受。房间里很温暖，一切都无忧无虑的，家里有一种充实的感觉。

    男孩子们在看书报时，莫瑞尔太太进了花园。 他们现在住在另一幢房子，离斯卡吉尔街那个家很近。威廉死后不久，他们就从那儿搬了出来，不一会，从花园里传来一声激动的叫喊：

    “保罗！保罗！快来看啦！”

    这是母亲的声音，他扔下书就 走了出去。这是一个通到野外的长长的花园。那是一个灰暗、阴冷的天，还有阵阵寒风从德比郡刮来。两块田地之外就是房屋鳞次栉比，到处是红墙的贝斯伍德。在那一片房屋中，教堂的尖塔和公理会礼拜堂的尖顶高耸而起。再往前就是树林和小山，一直通灰白色的潘宁山脉的顶部。保罗朝花园望去，寻找着母亲，她的头显露在红醋栗树丛中。

    “到这儿来！”她叫道。

    “干吗呀？”他回答。

    “来看看。”

    她在看着红醋栗树上的花蕾。保罗 走了过去。

    “想一想，”她说，“我以为在这里再也看不到这些了！”

    儿子走到了她身边，栅栏下面有一块小小的花坛，里面长着一些绿色的毛蓬蓬雪里青，就像没发育好的球茎上长出来的一样，开着三朵奇形怪状的花。莫瑞尔太太指着那些深蓝色的花。

    “来，看那个！”她惊叫着，“我正在看红醋栗时，心里想：‘那个很蓝很蓝的东西，是不是一个蜂巢呢？’那儿，你看，蜂巢，三朵雪里青，太美了！但它们是从哪儿来的呢？”

    “我不知道。”保罗说。

    “哦，太奇妙了！我还以为认识这园子里的一草一木呢。是不是很棒啊？你瞧，那棵醋栗树刚好掩护这些花，没伤，也没碰。

    他蹲 下身，把钟一般的小蓝花翻了过来。

    “这是一种奇妙无比的颜色！” 他说。

    “可不是！她叫道，“我想这花儿可能来自瑞士，听人说那儿才有这么可爱的东西。想想，这花开在雪地里！不过，它们是从哪来的呢？风不会把它们吹来的，是吧？”

    这时，他记起他曾在这儿插过很多修剪下来的断技。

    “你从没告诉我。”她说。

    “是的，我想等到开花时再说。”

    “现在，你看！我差点错过这些。我一辈子还没在花园里见过雪里青呢。”

    她又激动又得意，这花园给她无穷的乐趣。保罗为她而感到高兴，他们终于住进了有一个可以通往田地的花园的房间。每天早饭后，她都出去，心情愉快地绕着花园溜达一会儿。的确，她熟悉这园子里的一草一木。

    出游的人都来齐了。吃的装好后，他们就兴冲冲地出发了。 他们趴在水渠堤上，从沟这头扔下一张纸，看着纸片被水冲到另一头。他们站在游艇码头的人行桥上，看着寒光闪闪的铁轨。

    “你应该看一看六点半路过的那趟特快车。”伦纳德说，他的爸爸是个信号员。“伙伴们，那趟车轰隆声可真大啊。”这一伙人看看这一头通向伦敦，另一头通向苏格兰的铁路，他们似乎感觉到了这两个神秘地方的存在。

    在伊尔克斯顿，成群成群的矿工正等着酒店开门。这是一个无聊懒散的小镇。斯丹顿·盖特铸铁厂炉火熊熊。他们对所见所闻都热烈争论着。从特威尔他们又穿过德比郡回到诺丁汉郡。午饭时分，他们到了铁杉石，田野里到处是诺丁汉和伊尔克斯顿的人群。

    他们原以为会有一块历史悠久、闻名于世的纪念碑，结果却只看到了一小块扭曲的岩石，像只枯烂的蘑菇，可怜兮兮地站在田野的一边。伦纳德和狄克开始把他们的名字缩写：“L．W，”和“R．P”刻在那古老的红砂石上。但是，保罗拒绝这样做，因为他曾在报上读到过讽刺刻字留念的人的评论，说这些人想流芳百世却苦于找不到其它门路。接着，所有的小伙子们都爬上了岩石顶部四处眺望。

    田野里到处都是工厂男女工人在吃午饭，或做着什么运动。远处是一个古老庄园的花园，草地四周有水松树篱和密密的树丛，还有一个个种着金黄色番红花的花坛。

    “瞧，”保罗对米丽亚姆说，“多么安静的一个花园！”

    她已经看见了那黑黑的水松和金黄色的番红花，但她又感激地看了看那儿。 和这么多人在一起，他似乎不属于她了。他和平时不一样——不是她的那个能了解她心灵处最轻微的震颤的保罗，而是另外一种人，和她没有共同语言。她感到莫大的伤害，所有的知觉也麻木了。只有当他又回到她身边，丢下她所认为另外一个比较渺小的他时，她才能回复过来。现在他让她看这个花园，渴望跟她接触。她已厌倦了田野的景色，就转过身来看看四周都被密密麻麻的番红花环绕的这片寂静的草地。一股寂静得几乎让她痴迷的感觉笼罩了她。这让她感到她是和他单独在这个花园里了。

    之后，他又离开她加入其他伙伴之中。不久，他们就动身回家了。米丽亚姆一个人慢慢地走在后面，她和别人合不 来，她极少结交别人：她的朋友、伙伴、情人就是大自然。她看着太阳苍白无光地往下落。在阴暗、寒冷的树篱中夹杂着一些红叶，她温柔地、充满深情地采摘着这些叶子，指尖怜爱地抚摸着叶子，表达着自己内心的深情。

    突然，她发现自己一个人 走在一条陌生的路上，于是她向前匆匆赶去，在小巷的拐角处她赶上保罗，他正弯着腰站在那里，好像在聚精会神地干着什么，镇定、耐心，但又有一点无望的样子。她犹豫地向他走去， 看着他。

    他全神贯注地呆在路中间。远处，一抹浓浓的金光还留在灰暗的天际，把他映衬得像尊黑色浮雕。就像夕阳把他送给了她，她看着他那瘦小但结实的身影。心里突然一阵痛楚，她知道自己一定爱上了他。她曾经 发现了他身上少有的那种潜力，发现了他的孤独。她像是玛利亚在天使面前听到圣灵降生的消息一样，哆嗦着慢慢向前走去。

    他终于抬起头来。

    “哦，” 他感激地惊叫到，“你在等我吗？”

    她看见他眼睛掠过一丝阴影。

    “这是什么？”她问。

    “这个弹簧坏了。”他给她看看他的伞损坏的地方。

    立刻，她有点不好意思了，她知道不是他自己弄坏的伞，是杰弗里的责任。

    “这只不过是一把伞，是吧？”她问。

    她很奇怪他平时不计较一些琐碎事，而此时却如此小题大作。

    “但这是威廉的伞，而且根本没法不让我妈妈不知道。”他平静地说着，仍旧耐心地摆弄着那把伞。

    这句话像 把刀似的刺中了米丽亚姆的心。这也证实了刚才她对他的揣度，她望着他。但他却神情冷淡，因此她也不敢好言安慰他，甚至不敢温柔地跟他说话。

    “走吧，”他说，“ 我修不了。”于是他们就默默地沿着旧路走着。

    当天傍晚， 他们漫步在尼瑟·格林附近的树林中， 他好像在竭力要说服自己似的，有些焦急地对她说：

    “你知道，”他费劲地说着：“如果一个人有了爱，另一个人也一样。”

    “啊！”她回答，“就像小时候妈妈对我说的‘爱情产生爱情’。”

    “是的，差不多，我想这一定是至理名言。”

    "Let us go," he said.
　　There was a cool scent of ivory roses--a white, virgin scent. Something made him feel anxious and imprisoned. The two walkedin silence.
　　"Till Sunday," he said quietly, and left her; and she walkedhome slowly, feeling her soul satisfied with the holiness of the night. He stumbled down the path. And as soon as he was out of the wood,in the free open meadow, where he could breathe, he started to runas fast as he could. It was like a delicious delirium in his veins.
　　Always when he went with Miriam, and it grew rather late, he knewhis mother was fretting and getting angry about him--why, he couldnot understand. As he went into the house, flinging down his cap,his mother looked up at the clock. She had been sitting thinking,because a chill to her eyes prevented her reading. She could feelPaul being drawn away by this girl. And she did not care for Miriam. "She is one of those who will want to suck a man's soul out tillhe has none of his own left," she said to herself; "and he is justsuch a gaby as to let himself be absorbed. She will never let himbecome a man; she never will." So, while he was away with Miriam,Mrs. Morel grew more and more worked up.
　　She glanced at the clock and said, coldly and rather tired:
　　"You have been far enough to-night."
　　His soul, warm and exposed from contact with the girl, shrank.
　　"You must have been right home with her," his mother continued.
　　He would not answer. Mrs. Morel, looking at him quickly,saw his hair was damp on his forehead with haste, saw him frowningin his heavy fashion, resentfully.
　　"She must be wonderfully fascinating, that you can't get awayfrom her, but must go trailing eight miles at this time of night."
　　He was hurt between the past glamour with Miriam and theknowledge that his mother fretted. He had meant not to say anything,to refuse to answer. But he could not harden his heart to ignorehis mother.
　　"I DO like to talk to her," he answered irritably.
　　"Is there nobody else to talk to?"
　　"You wouldn't say anything if I went with Edgar."
　　"You know I should. You know, whoever you went with,I should say it was too far for you to go trailing, late at night,when you've been to Nottingham. Besides"--her voice suddenly flashedinto anger and contempt--"it is disgusting--bitsof lads and girls courting."
　　"It is NOT courting," he cried.
　　"I don't know what else you call it."
　　"It's not! Do you think we SPOON and do? We only talk."
　　"Till goodness knows what time and distance," was thesarcastic rejoinder.
　　Paul snapped at the laces of his boots angrily.
　　"What are you so mad about?" he asked. "Because you don'tlike her."
　　"I don't say I don't like her. But I don't hold with childrenkeeping company, and never did."
　　"But you don't mind our Annie going out with Jim Inger."
　　"They've more sense than you two."
　　"Why?"
　　"Our Annie's not one of the deep sort."
　　He failed to see the meaning of this remark. But his motherlooked tired. She was never so strong after William's death;and her eyes hurt her.
　　"Well," he said, "it's so pretty in the country. Mr. Sleathasked about you. He said he'd missed you. Are you a bit better?"
　　"I ought to have been in bed a long time ago," she replied.
　　"Why, mother, you know you wouldn't have gone beforequarter-past ten."
　　"Oh, yes, I should!"
　　"Oh, little woman, you'd say anything now you're disagreeablewith me, wouldn't you?"
　　He kissed her forehead that he knew so well: the deep marksbetween the brows, the rising of the fine hair, greying now, and theproud setting of the temples. His hand lingered on her shoulderafter his kiss. Then he went slowly to bed. He had forgotten Miriam;he only saw how his mother's hair was lifted back from her warm,broad brow. And somehow, she was hurt.
　　Then the next time he saw Miriam he said to her:
　　"Don't let me be late to-night--not later than ten o'clock. Mymother gets so upset."
　　Miriam dropped her bead, brooding.
　　"Why does she get upset?" she asked.
　　"Because she says I oughtn't to be out late when I have to getup early."
　　"Very well!" said Miriam, rather quietly, with just a touchof a sneer.
　　He resented that. And he was usually late again.
　　That there was any love growing between him and Miriam neitherof them would have acknowledged. He thought he was too sane forsuch sentimentality, and she thought herself too lofty. They both werelate in coming to maturity, and psychical ripeness was much behindeven the physical. Miriam was exceedingly sensitive, as her motherhad always been. The slightest grossness made her recoil almostin anguish. Her brothers were brutal, but never coarse in speech. The men did all the discussing of farm matters outside. But, perhaps,because of the continual business of birth and of begetting which goeson upon every farm, Miriam was the more hypersensitive to the matter,and her blood was chastened almost to disgust of the faintestsuggestion of such intercourse. Paul took his pitch from her,and their intimacy went on in an utterly blanched and chaste fashion. It could never be mentioned that the mare was in foal.
　　When he was nineteen, he was earning only twenty shillings a week,but he was happy. His painting went well, and life went well enough. On the Good Friday he organised a walk to the Hemlock Stone. There were three lads of his own age, then Annie and Arthur,Miriam and Geoffrey. Arthur, apprenticed as an electricianin Nottingham, was home for the holiday. Morel, as usual, was up early,whistling and sawing in the yard. At seven o'clock the family heardhim buy threepennyworth of hot-cross buns; he talked with gustoto the little girl who brought them, calling her "my darling". Heturned away several boys who came with more buns, telling themthey had been "kested" by a little lass. Then Mrs. Morel got up,and the family straggled down. It was an immense luxury to everybody,this lying in bed just beyond the ordinary time on a weekday. And Paul and Arthur read before breakfast, and had the meal unwashed,sitting in their shirt-sleeves. This was another holiday luxury. The room was warm. Everything felt free of care and anxiety. There was a sense of plenty in the house.
　　While the boys were reading, Mrs. Morel went into the garden. They were now in another house, an old one, near the ScargillStreet home, which had been left soon after William had died.Directly came an excited cry from the garden:
　　"Paul! Paul! come and look!"
　　It was his mother's voice. He threw down his book and went out. There was a long garden that ran to a field. It was a grey, cold day,with a sharp wind blowing out of Derbyshire. Two fields awayBestwood began, with a jumble of roofs and red house-ends, out of whichrose the church tower and the spire of the Congregational Chapel. And beyond went woods and hills, right away to the pale grey heightsof the Pennine Chain.
　　Paul looked down the garden for his mother. Her head appearedamong the young currant-bushes.
　　"Come here!" she cried.
　　"What for?" he answered.
　　"Come and see."
　　She had been looking at the buds on the currant trees. Paul went up.
　　"To think," she said, "that here I might never have seen them!"
　　Her son went to her side. Under the fence, in a little bed,was a ravel of poor grassy leaves, such as come from very immature bulbs,and three scyllas in bloom. Mrs. Morel pointed to the deep blue flowers.
　　"Now, just see those!" she exclaimed. "I was looking atthe currant bushes, when, thinks I to myself, 'There's somethingvery blue; is it a bit of sugar-bag?' and there, behold you! Sugar-bag! Three glories of the snow, and such beauties! But where on earth did they come from?"
　　"I don't know," said Paul.
　　"Well, that's a marvel, now! I THOUGHT I knew every weedand blade in this garden. But HAVEN'T they done well? You see,that gooseberry-bush just shelters them. Not nipped, not touched!"
　　He crouched down and turned up the bells of the littleblue flowers.
　　"They're a glorious colour!" he said.
　　"Aren't they!" she cried. "I guess they come from Switzerland,where they say they have such lovely things. Fancy them againstthe snow! But where have they come from? They can't have BLOWN here,can they?"
　　Then he remembered having set here a lot of little trashof bulbs to mature.
　　"And you never told me," she said.
　　"No! I thought I'd leave it till they might flower."
　　"And now, you see! I might have missed them. And I've neverhad a glory of the snow in my garden in my life."
　　She was full of excitement and elation. The garden wasan endless joy to her. Paul was thankful for her sake at lastto be in a house with a long garden that went down to a field. Every morning after breakfast she went out and was happy potteringabout in it. And it was true, she knew every weed and blade.
　　Everybody turned up for the walk. Food was packed, and theyset off, a merry, delighted party. They hung over the wall of themill-race, dropped paper in the water on one side of the tunneland watched it shoot out on the other. They stood on the foot-bridgeover Boathouse Station and looked at the metals gleaming coldly.
　　"You should see the Flying Scotsman come through at half-past six!"said Leonard, whose father was a signalman. "Lad, but she doesn'thalf buzz!" and the little party looked up the lines one way,to London, and the other way, to Scotland, and they felt the touchof these two magical places.
　　In Ilkeston the colliers were waiting in gangs for thepublic-houses to open. It was a town of idleness and lounging. At Stanton Gate the iron foundry blazed. Over everything there weregreat discussions. At Trowell they crossed again from Derbyshireinto Nottinghamshire. They came to the Hemlock Stone at dinner-time.Its field was crowded with folk from Nottingham and Ilkeston.

    They had expected a venerable and dignified monument. They found a little, gnarled, twisted stump of rock, something like adecayed mushroom, standing out pathetically on the side of a field. Leonard and Dick immediately proceeded to carve their initials,"L. W." and "R. P.", in the old red sandstone; but Paul desisted,because he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks aboutinitial-carvers, who could find no other road to immortality. Then all the lads climbed to the top of the rock to look round.
　　Everywhere in the field below, factory girls and lads were eatinglunch or sporting about. Beyond was the garden of an old manor.It had yew-hedges and thick clumps and bordersof yellow crocuses round the lawn.
　　"See," said Paul to Miriam, "what a quiet garden!"
　　She saw the dark yews and the golden crocuses, then shelooked gratefully. He had not seemed to belong to her among allthese others; he was different then--not her Paul, who understoodthe slightest quiver of her innermost soul, but something else,speaking another language than hers. How it hurt her, and deadenedher very perceptions. Only when he came right back to her,leaving his other, his lesser self, as she thought, would shefeel alive again. And now he asked her to look at this garden,wanting the contact with her again. Impatient of the set in the field,she turned to the quiet lawn, surrounded by sheaves of shut-up crocuses. A feeling of stillness, almost of ecstasy, came over her. It felt almost as if she were alone with him in this garden.
　　Then he left her again and joined the others. Soon theystarted home. Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did notfit in with the others; she could very rarely get into humanrelations with anyone: so her friend, her companion, her lover,was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly. In the dusky,cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered to gather them,tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tips caressedthe leaves; the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the leaves.
　　Suddenly she realised she was alone in a strange road,and she hurried forward. Turning a corner in the lane, she cameupon Paul, who stood bent over something, his mind fixed on it,working away steadily, patiently, a little hopelessly. She hesitatedin her approach, to watch.
　　He remained concentrated in the middle of the road. Beyond,one rift of rich gold in that colourless grey evening seemed to makehim stand out in dark relief. She saw him, slender and firm,as if the setting sun had given him to her. A deep pain took holdof her, and she knew she must love him. And she had discovered him,discovered in him a rare potentiality, discovered his loneliness. Quivering as at some "annunciation", she went slowly forward.
　　At last he looked up.
　　"Why," he exclaimed gratefully, "have you waited for me!"
　　She saw a deep shadow in his eyes.
　　"What is it?" she asked.
　　"The spring broken here;" and he showed her where his umbrellawas injured.
　　Instantly, with some shame, she knew he had not donethe damage himself, but that Geoffrey was responsible.
　　"It is only an old umbrella, isn't it?" she asked.
　　She wondered why he, who did not usually trouble over trifles,made such a mountain of this molehill.
　　"But it was William's an' my mother can't help but know,"he said quietly, still patiently working at the umbrella.
　　The words went through Miriam like a blade. This, then, was theconfirmation of her vision of him! She looked at him. But therewas about him a certain reserve, and she dared not comfort him,not even speak softly to him.
　　"Come on," he said. "I can't do it;" and they went in silencealong the road.
　　That same evening they were walking along under the treesby Nether Green. He was talking to her fretfully, seemed to bestruggling to convince himself.
　　"You know," he said, with an effort, "if one person loves,the other does."
　　"Ah!" she answered. "Like mother said to me when I was little,'Love begets love.'"
　　"Yes, something like that, I think it MUST be."