Yet she was glad when the
sun came. With the first bubble of the spring of light bursting out on
the hill-top, she rose and walked through the long shadows of the
graves down to the river and through the long shadows of the stubble
down the side of the river, which shone in the morning light like a
flowing crystal of delicate brown-???and so to Clippenstrae, where she
found her aunt still in her night-cap. She was standing at the door,
however, shading her eyes with her hand, looking abroad as if for some
one that might be crossing hitherward from the east. She did not see
Annie approaching from the north.
"What are ye luikin' for, auntie?"
"Naething. Nae for you, ony gait, lassie."
"Weel, ye see, I'm come ohn luikit for. But ye was luikin' for
somebody, auntie."
"Na. I was only jist luikin'."
Even Annie did not then know that it was the soul's hunger, the vague
sense of a need which nothing but the God of human faces, the God of
the morning and of the starful night, the God of love and
self-forgetfulness, can satisfy, that sent her money-loving,
poverty-stricken, pining, grumbling old aunt out staring towards the
east. It is this formless idea of something at hand that keeps men and
women striving to tear from the bosom of the world the secret of their
own hopes.
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