in the flowers and trees that never smelled anything but sweet, never looked anything but lovely, and were never restless.  Why was one restless, wanting things that did not come—­wanting to feel and know, wanting to love, and be loved?  And at that thought which had come to her so unexpectedly—­a thought never before shaped so definitely—­Nedda planted her arms on the window-sill, with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands meet cup-shaped beneath her chin.  Love!  To have somebody with whom she could share everything—­some one to whom and for whom she could give up—­some one she could protect and comfort—­some one who would bring her peace.  Peace, rest—­from what?  Ah! that she could not make clear, even to herself.  Love!  What would love be like?  Her father loved her, and she loved him.  She loved her mother; and Alan on the whole was jolly to her—­it was not that.  What was it—­where was it—­when would it come and wake her, and kiss her to sleep, all in one?  Come and fill her as with the warmth and color, the freshness, light, and shadow of this beautiful May evening, flood her as with the singing of those birds, and the warm light sunning the apple blossoms.  And she sighed.  Then—­as with all young things whose attention after all is but as the hovering of a butterfly—­her speculation was attracted to a thin, high-shouldered figure limping on a stick, away from the house, down one of the paths among the apple-trees.  He wavered, not knowing, it seemed, his way.  And Nedda thought:  ’Poor old man, how lame he is!’ She saw him stoop, screened, as he evidently thought, from sight, and take something very small from his pocket.  He gazed, rubbed it, put it back; what it was she could not see.  Then pressing his hand down, he smoothed and stretched his leg.  His eyes seemed closed.  So a stone man might have stood!  Till very slowly he limped on, passing out of sight.  And turning from the window, Nedda began hurrying into her evening things.

When she was ready she took a long time to decide whether to wear her mother’s lace or keep it for the Bigwigs.  But it was so nice and creamy that she simply could not take it off, and stood turning and turning before the glass.  To stand before a glass was silly and old-fashioned; but Nedda could never help it, wanting so badly to be nicer to look at than she was, because of that something that some day was coming!

She was, in fact, pretty, but not merely pretty—­there was in her face something alive and sweet, something clear and swift.  She had still that way of a child raising its eyes very quickly and looking straight at you with an eager innocence that hides everything by its very wonder; and when those eyes looked down they seemed closed—­their dark lashes were so long.  Her eyebrows were wide apart, arching with a slight angle, and slanting a little down toward her nose.  Her forehead under its burnt-brown hair was candid; her firm little chin just dimpled.