Page:Avon's harvest.djvu/68

 Avon covered his eyes—whether to shut The memory and the sight of it away, Or to be sure that mine were for the moment Not searching his with pity, is now no matter. My glance at him was brief, turning itself To the familiar pattern of his rug, Wherein I may have sought a consolation— As one may gaze in sorrow on a shell, Or a small apple. So it had come, I thought; And heard, no more with any wonderment, The faint recurring footsteps of his wife, Who, knowing less than I knew, yet knew more. Now I could read, I fancied, through the fear That latterly was living in her eyes, To the sure source of its authority. But he went on, and I was there to listen: