"
This was not language befitting the man who had preached of the sanctity of
work. It jarred on Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, which, since
all men desire it, must be of the right. She hunted for her little purse and
gravely took out a threepenny bit.
"There it is," she said. "I'll pay you, Dickie; and don't worry any more; it
isn't worth while. Are you paid?"
"I am," said the very human apostle of fair craft, taking the coin. "I'm paid a
thousand times, and we'll close that account. It shall live on my watch-chain;
and you're an angel, Maisie."
"I'm very cramped, and I'm feeling a little cold. Good gracious! the cloak is
all white, and so is your moustache! I never knew it was so chilly."
A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick's ulster. He, too, had
forgotten the state of the weather. They laughed together, and with that laugh
ended all serious discourse.
They ran inland across the waste to warm themselves, then turned to look at the
glory of the full tide under the moonlight and the intense black shadows of the
furze bushes. It was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could see colour
even as he saw it,--could see the blue in the white of the mist, the violet
that is in gray palings, and all things else as they are,--not of one hue, but
a thousand.
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