He could write
anything if he chose. At least, he might put his shoulder to the wheel
and teach, or something!'
And so, not outwardly in spoken words or quarrels, but inwardly, owing
to that deadliest of cancers, want of sympathy, these two excellent
grown-up children had moved with the years further and further apart.
Love had not died, but want of understanding, not attended to in time,
had frayed the edges so that they no longer fitted well together. They
have blown in here, thought Rogers as he watched them, like seeds the
wind has brought. They have taken root and grown a bit. They think
they're here for ever, but presently a wind will rise and blow them
off again elsewhere. And thinking it is their own act, they will look
wisely at each other, as children do, and say, 'Yes, it _is_ time now
to make a move. The children are getting big. Our health, too, needs a
change.' He wondered, smiling a little, in what vale or mountain top
the wind would let them down. And a big decision blazed up in his
heart. 'I'm not very strong in the domestic line,' he exclaimed, 'but
I think I can help them a bit. They're neighbours at any rate. They're
all children too. Daddy's no older than Jimbo, or Mother than Jane
Anne!'
* * *
In the spaces of the forest there was moss and sunshine.
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