Miss Stone sat by the boy on the lawn at Idlewood. A great canopy¹ of khaki duck was spread above them, and the boy lay on a wicker couch that could be lifted and carried from place to place as the wind or the sun, or a whim² directed.  
Five days they had been here—every day full of sunshine and the fragrance³ of flowers from the garden that ran along the terraces from the house to the river bank, and was a riot of midsummer colour and scent⁴. The boy’s face had gained clear freshness and his eyes, fixed⁵ on Miss Stone’s face, glowed. “I like—it—here,” he said.
 
“Yes, Alcie.” Miss Stone bent⁶ toward him. “You are getting strong every day—you will soon be able to walk—to-morrow, perhaps.” She glanced at the thin legs under their light covering.
 
The boy laughed a little and moved them. “I can walk now—” he declared.
 
But she shook her head. “No, I will tell you a story.” So her voice went on and on in the summer quiet—insects buzzed faintly, playing the song of the day. Bees bumbled among the flowers and flew past, laden⁷. The boy’s eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow’s wing dropped on the grass and drifted by. The summer day held itself—and Miss Stone’s voice wove a dream through it.
 
When the boy opened his eyes again she was sitting very quiet, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the river that flowed beyond the garden. The boy’s eyes studied her face. “Once—I—saw—you—” he said. His hand stole out and touched the grey dress.
 
Miss Stone started. They had waited a long time—but not for this. “Yes, Alcie, once you saw me—go on—”
 
“—saw you—in a carriage,” finished Alcie, with quick smile. “You ride straight—you—straight—now.” He looked at her wit............