They had set
the rickety gate swinging petulantly, and it latched and unlatched
itself with the sort of sound that the swaying of some dreary wind would
give it. The children seemed to swing there, not because they were
happy, but because they were miserable.
As Caius came with light step up the lane, fishing gear over his
shoulder, the children looked at him disconsolately, and when he
approached the gate the eldest stepped down and pulled it open for him.
"Anything the matter?" he asked, stopping his quick tread, and turning
when he had passed through.
The big girl did not answer, but she let go the gate, and when it jerked
forward the baby fell.
She did not fall far, nor was she hurt; but as Caius picked her up and
patted her cotton clothes to shake the dust out of them, it seemed to
him that he had never seen so sad a look in a baby's eyes. Large, dark,
dewy eyes they were, circled around with curly lashes, and they looked
up at him out of a wistful little face that was framed by a wreath of
yellow hair. Caius lifted the child, kissed her, put her down, and went
on his way. He only gave his action half a thought at the time, but all
his life afterwards he was sorry that he had let the baby go out of his
arms again, and thankful that he had given her that one kiss.
His path now lay close by the house and on to the sea-cliff behind.
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