Yet she seemed all summer, all glow and youth and gladness.

Her voice was golden, too, and the words which fell from her lips were as though tuned to the sound of falling water.

The tone of the voice would last when the gold of all else became faded or tarnished.

It had its origin in the soul: "Whereaway goes my lad?
Tell me, has he gone alone?
Never harsh word did I speak; never hurt I gave; Strong he was and beautiful; like a heron he has flown Hereaway, hereaway will I make my grave." The voice lingered on the words till it trailed away into nothing, like the vanishing note of a violin which seems still to pulse faintly after the sound has ceased.
"But he did not go alone, and I have not made my grave," the girl said, and raised her head at the sound of footsteps.

With an effort she emerged from the half-trance in which she had been, and smiled at a man hastening towards her.
"Dear bully, bulbous being--how that word 'bully' would have, made her cringe!" she said as the man ambled nearer.