CHAPTER XXXIII 



THE ROMAN ROAD 



The spring was early that year. The swallows 

 must have known it, for they had returned several 

 days before their time, and to-day, the sixteenth 

 of April, the silence of the Roman Road was broken 

 by their twittering and crossed by their shadows; 

 the trees in the woods were green again, the httle 

 river beneath the bridge was foaming in spate, 

 and from far away in the wood depths came the 

 moist, sweet sound of the cuckoo, singing just as 

 he sang in Chaucer's time, just as he will sing in 

 times a thousand years unborn. 



The girl had freed herseK from Effie and had 

 wandered down to the bridge, where she stood 

 now, watching the wimpHng water and the brown 

 weeds, Hstening to the cuckoo and the chatter of 

 the blue tits in the branches of the trees. 



A telegram had brought her, yesterday, the 

 grand news of Garryowen's victory, and this 

 morning's post had brought her two letters — one 

 from Mr French and one from jMr Dashwood. 



From what she could gather in the perusal of 

 these letters each man was in love with her, yet 

 each was proposing that she should not look 

 coldly on the other. 



They would return that evening. She would have 

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