IV.

By seven she was up and in the fresh garden. George was before her.

She cried brightly: "Why, how early you are!" and ran to him--very
pretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering
in her hand.

"Yes; for once before you."

George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. She
played on it again: "Turning a new leaf?"

He drummed at the turf with his heel: "Yes--for to-day." He threw out
a hand towards her: "But in the same old book. I've had eight--nine
years of it, and now there are three more months."

"Poor George! But only three months, think how they will fly!"

He was desperately gloomy: "I haven't your imagination. Each single
day of them will mean a morning--here; a night--here."

"Oh, is it so hard?"

"Yes, now. It's pretty deadly now. You know, when I wasn't precisely
killing myself with overwork, I didn't mind so much. When it was three
or four years, anyway, before I could possibly be free, a few extra