All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness. I can’t love you. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. Borrow. Wily little devil she is. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. The young man looked at her.
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