'You've had your pennyworth.'
'Oh, Charlie, I haven't! you must send me higher. You mustn't stop; I've only just begun to swing.'
'I shall stop; it's my turn. You'd keep on for ever.'
The boy drew to one side. The swing began to slow. Doris grew indignant. She endeavoured to swing herself, wriggling on the seat, twisting herself in various attitudes. The result was failure. The swing moved slower. She tried a final appeal.
'Oh, Charlie, I do think you might push me just a little longer; it's not fair. You said you'd give me a good one. Then I'll give you a splendid swing.'
'You've had a good one. You'd keep on for ever, you would. Get off!'
The swing stopped dead. The girl made a vain attempt to give it momentum.
'It's beastly of you,' she said.
She scrambled to the ground. The boy got on. He was not content to sit; he stood upright.
'Now, then,' he cried, 'why don't you start me? Don't you see I'm ready?'
'You'll tumble off. Mamma said you weren't to stand.'
'Shall stand. Go and tell! Start me!'
'You will tumble.'
'All right, then, I will tumble. Start me! Don't you hear?'
She 'started' him. The swing having received its initial impetus, he swung himself. He mounted higher and higher. Doris watched him, leaning her right shoulder against the beech tree, her hands behind her back. She interpolated occasional remarks on the risk which he was running.
'You'll fall if you don't take care. You oughtn't to go so high. Mamma said you oughtn't to go so high.'
He received her observations with scorn.
'Just as though I will fall! How silly you are! You will keep on!'
As he spoke, one of the ropes gave way. The other rope swerving, he was dashed against an upright. He fell to the ground. The thing was the work of an instant. He was ascending jubilantly towards the sky: the same second he was lying on the ground. Doris did not realise what had happened. She had been envying him the ease with which he swung himself, the height of his ascent. She did not understand why he had stopped so suddenly. She perceived how still he seemed, half wondering.
'Charlie!' His silence frightened her. Her voice sank. 'Charlie!' She became angry. 'Why don't you answer me?' She moved closer to him, observing in what an ugly heap he lay. 'Charlie!'
Yet he vouchsafed her no reply. He lay so still. It was such an unusual thing for Charlie to be still, the strangeness of it began to get upon her nerves. Her face clouded. She was making ready to rush off and alarm the house in an agony of weeping. Already she was starting, when Someone came to her from across the lawn, and laid His hand upon her shoulder.
'Doris, what is wrong?'
The voice was a stranger's, and the presence. But she paid no heed to that: all her thoughts were concentrated on a single theme.
'Charlie!' she gasped.
'What ails Charlie?'
The Stranger, kneeling beside the silent boy, bent over him, gently turning him so that He could see his face. Then, raising him from the ground, gathering him in His arms, He held him to His breast; and, stooping, He whispered in his ear:
'Wake up, Charlie! Doris wants you.'
And the boy sat up, and looked in the face of Him in whose arms he was.
'Hollo!' he said. 'Who are you?'
'The friend of little children.'
There was an appreciable space of time before the answer came, and when it did come it was accompanied by a smile, as the Stranger looked the boy straight in the eyes. The boy laughed outright.
'I like the look of you.'
Doris drew a little nearer. She had her fingers to her lips, seeming more than half afraid.
'Charlie, I thought you were hurt.'
'Hurt!' he flashed at her; then back at the Stranger: 'I'm not hurt, am I?'
'No, you are not hurt; you are well, and whole, and strong.'
'But you tumbled from the swing.' The boy stared at Doris as if he thought she must be dreaming. 'The swing broke.'
'Broke?' Glancing up, he perceived the severed rope. 'Why, so it has.'
'It can soon be mended.'
The Stranger put the boy down, and went to the swing, and in a moment the two ends of the rope were joined together. Then He lifted them both on the seat, the boy and the girl together-- there was ample room for both--and swung them gently to and fro. And as He swung He talked to them, and they to Him.
And when they had had enough of swinging He went with them, hand in hand, and sat with them on the grass by the side of the lake, with the trees at their back. And again He talked to them, and they to Him. And the simple things of which He spoke seemed strange to them, and wonderful. Never had anyone talked to them like that before. They kept as close to Him as they could, and put their arms about Him so far as they were able, and nestled their faces against His side, and they were happy.
While the Stranger and the children still conversed together there came down through the woods, towards the lake, a lady and a gentleman. He was a tall man, and held himself very straight, speaking as if he were very much in earnest.
'Doris, why should we keep on pretending to each other? I know that you love me, and you know that I love you. Why should you spoil your life--and mine!--for the sake of such a hound?'
'He is my husband.'
She spoke a little below her breath, as if she were ashamed of the fact. He struck impatiently at the bracken with his stick.
'Your husband! That creature! As though it were not profanation to link you with such an animal.'
'And then there are the children.'
Her voice sank lower, as if this time she spoke of something sacred. He noted the difference in the intonation; apparently he resented it. He struck more vigorously at the bracken, as if actuated by a desire to relieve his feelings. There was an interval, during which both of them were silent. Then he turned to her with sudden passion.
'Doris, come with me, at once! now! Give yourself to me, and I'll devote my whole life to you. You've known enough of me through all these things to be sure that you can trust me. Aren't you sure that you can trust me?'
'Yes, I am sure that I can trust you--in a sense.'
Something in her face seemed to make an irresistible appeal to him. He took her in his arms, she offering no resistance.
'In a sense? In what sense? Can't you trust me in every sense?'
'I can trust you to be true to me; but I am not so sure that I can trust you to let me be true to myself.'
'What hair-splitting's this? I'll let you be true to your own womanhood; it's you who shirk. You seem to want me to treat you as if you were an automatic figure, not a creature of flesh and blood. I can't do it--you can't trust me to do it; that thing's plain. Come, darling, let's take the future in our own hands, and together wrest happiness from life. You know that at my side you'll be content. See how you're trembling! There's proof of it. I'll swear I'll be content at yours! Come, Doris, come!'
'Where will you take me?'
'That's not your affair just now. I'll take you where I will. All you have to do is--come.'
She drew herself out of his arms, and a little away from him. She put up her hand as if to smooth her hair, he watching her with eager eyes.
'I'll come.'
He took her again in his embrace, softly, tenderly,