Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying of the day soothed them all insensibly. Groups of dark little children passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and greeting timidly.
‚ÄúThere seems to be marrying and giving in marriage,‚Äù laughed Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool.
‚ÄúNot very much,‚Äù said Mr. ¬ÝCresswell drily.
“Well, at least plenty of children.”
“Plenty.”
‚ÄúBut where are the houses?‚Äù asked Mrs. ¬ÝGrey.
‚ÄúPerhaps in the swamp,‚Äù said Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool lightly, looking up at the sombre trees that lined the left.
‚ÄúThey live where they please and do as they please,‚Äù Cresswell explained; to which Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool added: ‚ÄúLike other animals.‚Äù
Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage’s four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily.
Out through the wood Bles and Zora had come to the broad red road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place.
“You are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp,” he said.
“And yet look up to you,” she murmured.
“Your eyes are darkness dressed in night.”
“To see you brighter, dear,” she said.