"Three minutes are up," she warned.
"Please, can't she stay?" begged Robin, in alarm.
"I must go home, anyway, Robin, to tell mother. You have no idea how
anxious she is--everyone is. People hang around our door. I suppose they
think we have the latest news about you. Well, we have, now. And,
Robin--mother was awfully angry about my--leaving you the way I did. She
begged me to come back, long ago. I'm sorry, now, I didn't. Good-bye,
Robin. I'll be back, tomorrow."
Beryl walked to the village in a deep absorption of thought. Certain
values she had fostered had tumbled about and had to be put in order.
Here were not only hundreds of mill folk making a "fuss" over what Robin
had done, but the household of the Manor as well--old Budge, usually as
adamant as a brick wall, crying! No one loved the heroic more than
Beryl, but to her thinking it lay in a spectacular, and with a dramatic
indifference, risking one's own life for another, not in a little
unnecessary sentimental impulse. When she had heard of what Robin had
done she had declared her "crazy" to go near the Castles, to which her
mother had indignantly replied: "And are you thinking the blessed child
ever thinks of herself at all?" _That_ was the quality, of course, about
Robin that you never guessed from anything she said but that you just
felt.
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