III


Charlotte sat on the top of the slope in the field below Barrow Farm.
John Conway lay at her feet. The tall beeches stood round them in an
unclosed ring.

Through the opening she could see the farmhouse, three ball-topped
gables, the middle one advancing, the front built out there in a huge
door-place that carried a cross windowed room under its roof.

Low heavy-browed mullions; the panes, black shining slits in the grey and
gold of the stone. All their rooms. Hers and Gwinnie's under the near
gable by the fir-trees, Mr. and Mrs. Burton's under the far gable by the
elms, John's by itself in the middle, jutting out.

She could see the shallow garden dammed up to the house out of the green
field by its wall, spilling trails of mauve campanula, brimming with pink
phlox and white phlox, the blue spires of the lupins piercing up through
the froth.

Sunday evening half an hour before milking-time. From September
nineteen-thirteen to December--to March nineteen-fourteen, to June--she
had been at the farm nine months. June--May--April. This time three
months ago John had come.

In the bottom of the field, at the corner by the yard-gate, under the
elms, she could see Gwinnie astride over the tilted bucket, feeding the
calves. It was Gwinnie's turn.