The children seemed to swing there, not because they were happy, but because they were miserable.
As Caius came with light step up the lane, fishing gear over his shoulder, the children looked at him disconsolately, and when he approached the gate the eldest stepped down and pulled it open for him.
"Anything the matter ?" he asked, stopping his quick tread, and turning when he had passed through.
The big girl did not answer, but she let go the gate, and when it jerked forward the baby fell.
She did not fall far, nor was she hurt; but as Caius picked her up and patted her cotton clothes to shake the dust out of them, it seemed to him that he had never seen so sad a look in a baby's eyes.

Large, dark, dewy eyes they were, circled around with curly lashes, and they looked up at him out of a wistful little face that was framed by a wreath of yellow hair.

Caius lifted the child, kissed her, put her down, and went on his way.

He only gave his action half a thought at the time, but all his life afterwards he was sorry that he had let the baby go out of his arms again, and thankful that he had given her that one kiss.
His path now lay close by the house and on to the sea-cliff behind.

The house stood in front of him--four bare wooden walls, brown painted, and without veranda or ornament; its barns, large and ugly, were close beside it.