The old gammers and gaffers of the village were sitting by their firesides, for, in spite of the sunshine, the air was cold, and more than once Verity shivered as she sat.
"This wind is too cold for you, my child," he said presently; "let us walk on." But she shook her head.
"No, please let us stay a little longer.

I do so love this village.

If I were an artist I would paint it.

Amias," interrupting herself, "there is something I want to say to you.

I have been at dear Colbrook seven months--seven happy, beautiful months--but I am well now, and quite strong, and it is time for me to work and get my own living." Verity spoke with great determination, but he noticed that her lips were white and drawn, and that there was a strained look in her eyes, and a sort of pitiful feeling came over him, such as a mother would feel for a suffering child.