She did not cry (some of the villagers curiously watching her
thought her a hard-hearted little thing), but her heart was full of
tenderness as she stood there, seeing the humped grey church that
was part of her life, the green mounds with no name, the dark wood,
the grey roofs of the village clustered below the hill, hearing the
bell, the rooks, the healthy voice of Mr. Trefusis, the bark of some
distant dog, the creak of some distant wheel.
"I missed my chance," she thought. "If only now I could have told
him!"
Her aunt stood at her side and once again Maggie felt irritation at
her composure. "After all, he was her brother," she thought. She
remembered the feeling and passion with which her aunt had repeated
the Twenty-third Psalm. She was puzzled.
A moment of shrinking came upon her as she thought of the coming
London life.
Then the service was over. The villagers, with that inevitable
disappointment that always lingers after a funeral, went to their
homes. The children remained until night, under the illusion that it
was Sunday.
Maggie spent the rest of the day, for the most part, alone in her
room and thinking of her father.
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