“What an evening it is!” she cried. “I smelt primroses then!”

“It’s moss, I expect, and dead leaves,” he said, “from the woods over there.”

They soon reached the little shop; and he entered it with her, and helped her to choose the cake.

“Where are you going, Wolf? Over to Barton? Over to Pond Cottage?”

He held open the door for her in silence. There was a bell fixed upon the top of this door, which rang noisily at he closed it behind them. His nerves were so strained that this harsh jangle above their heads seemed ominous to him⁠—seemed to have a sound of warning, like a reef-bell at sea.

“Yes,” he said dreamily. “Over to Barton⁠ ⁠… over to Lenty Pond.”

The girl missed this slip of the tongue.