today. The Veil hung thick, sombre, impenetrable. Well, she had done her duty, and slowly she nestled back and watched the far-off green and golden radiance of the cotton.
“Bles,” she said impulsively, “shall I tell you of the Golden Fleece?”
He glanced at her again.
“Yes’m, please,” he said.
She settled herself almost luxuriously, and began the story of Jason and the Argonauts.
The boy remained silent. And when she had finished, he still sat silent, elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and staring ahead at the horizon. She looked at him doubtfully with some disappointment that his hearing had apparently shared so little of the joy of her telling; and, too, there was mingled a vague sense of having lowered herself to too familiar fellowship with this‚ÅÝ‚Äîthis boy. She straightened herself instinctively and thought of some remark that would restore proper relations. She had not found it before he said, slowly:
“All yon is Jason’s.”
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
He pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon.
“All yon golden fleece is Jason’s now,” he repeated.
‚ÄúI thought it was‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCresswell‚Äôs,‚Äù she said.
“That’s what I mean.”
She suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply.