light round them, stiff mouths wide open. When they bobbed up, small
bubbles broke from them and sparkled and went out.

Anne remembered the goldfish; but somehow they were not so fascinating
as they used to be.

A queer plant grew on the rock border of the pond. Green fleshy stems,
with blunt spikes all over them. Each carried a tiny gold star at its
tip. Thick, cold juice would come out of it if you squeezed it. She
thought it would smell like lavender.

It had a name. She tried to think of it.

Stonecrop. Stonecrop. Suddenly she remembered.

Her mother stood with her by the pond, dark and white and slender. Anne
held out her hands smeared with the crushed flesh of the stonecrop; her
mother stooped and wiped them with her pockethandkerchief, and there was
a smell of lavender. The goldfish went swimming by in the olive-green
water.

Anne's sadness came over her again; sadness so heavy that it kept her
from crying; sadness that crushed her breast and made her throat ache.

They went back up the lawn, quietly, and the day felt more and more like
Sunday, or like--like a funeral day.

"She's very silent, this small daughter of yours," Mr. Fielding said.

"Yes," said Mr. Severn.