‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. .
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