Even a fond mother had been
provoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls and
roarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside.
Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon the
kitchen, and carried off the "limb" to the river, where, being given
something to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the main
stream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself to
Helena's skirts.
There they both were, on the river's pebbly bank, within hail, Helena in
a short white skirt with a green jersey and cap. She was alternately
helping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath her
head, under the shelter of the bank. Moderately fine weather had
returned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after all
he might get in his oats. The morning sun sparkled on the river, on the
freshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby's bare curly head, as he sat
busily playing beside Helena.
What was Helena thinking of? Lucy Friend would have given a good deal to
know.
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