The Argosy — page 368: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pe eV, —————— In the Primrose Time. 347 They were received with subdued acclamation in the porch. Easter was early this year and spring was late, and till now prim- roses had seemed unattainable. Some dozen workers were doing their best with scant materials, assisted by the Vicar and Curate, and some workmen who had dropped in at their dinner-hour. Nansie’s posies must go to the east window, they all agreed, and she carried them up to the workers in the chancel. ‘Where did you find so many ?” someone asked. “Tn Redwoods, down by the stream,” she replied. “ Redwoods! They are not open!” spoke Philip Reynholt sharply, looking round from the pillar to which he was fastening a garland. He was a handsome, bright-faced young fellow, with kindly blue eyes and a yellow moustache. He looked disturbed, and spoke louder than he intended. “The General let us in himself when he heard we were gathering for the church.” ‘Oh, if my father allowed it, all right.” Hush, if you please,” said the Vicar. ‘Send the httle ones home, Nansie, and as [ think most of our choir are here, we can go over the hymns for to-morrow.” Baby Nell and her brother pattered hand in hand down the aisle, the Curate seated himself at the organ, and the singers took their places. Philip refused to join them, and took his place moodily on the base of a pillar out of sight. What had Ae to do with ‘“ Easter triumph, Easter joy?” He, still in the strain and stress of the conflict, fighting miserably, despairingly, conscious that whichever way the victory went it meant loss and woe unutterable to him. Nansie’s voice used to charm him once with its clear, cold purity of tone, but to-day it moved and distressed him. It sounded richer, fuller, more human, with a touch of passion that stirred some answering chord within him. He stole silently away, leaving the Easter hymn unfinished. Nansie sat at her window late into the night watching the fleecy clouds scud before the wind across the starless sky. She had read and re-read the letter till she knew it by heart, and deeper and deeper the meaning sank into her mind. ‘Then she stole softly downstairs into the living room, where the embers on the hearth still glowed, and kindling them with her breath into a flame, burned the letter to ashes. A spirit of unrest had seized the girl; she felt it driving her forth as in her childish days. The trees seemed to beckon and the voice of the wind tocall. She wrapped herself in hood and cloak, and opening the door noiselessly, sped out into the night. Fast and far she walked, till, returning homeward, she found herself in Broadmeads, within sight of the house that Sir Francis March had taken for the winter season. Vow she knew what she was going for, and across the park she hurried, and plunged into a woodland track COnniclooolkKs (C(O) im —__))