The very ham and eggs seemed as if they had been blessed by the
Pope.
It was yet an hour to church-time, an hour usually one of spiteful
alacrity; but this morning, it seemed, in defiance of the clock, cruelly
unpunctual. After breakfast, Narcissus strolled about the town, and
inquired the way to Miss Curlpaper's school. It stood outside the little
town. It was pointed out to him in the distance, across billowy clouds
of pear and apple-blossom, making the hollow in which the town nestled
seem a vast pot-pourri jar, overflowing with newly gathered rose-leaves.
Had the Miller's Daughter been able to watch his movements, she would
have remarked that his antiquarian ardour drew him not to the church,
but to a sombre many-windowed house upon the hill.
Narcissus reconnoitred the prison-like edifice from behind a hedge, then
summoned courage to walk past with slow nonchalance. All was as dead and
dull as though Alice was not there. Yet somewhere within those
prison-walls her young beauty was dressing itself to meet the spring.
Perhaps, in delicious linen, soft and white, she was dashing cool water
about her rosebud face, or, flushed with exhilaration, was pinning up
the golden fleeces of her hair. Perhaps she was eating wonderful bacon
and eggs! Could she be thinking of him? She little knew how near he was
to her. He had not written of his coming. Letters at Miss Curlpaper's
had to pass an inspection much more rigorous than the Customs, but still
smuggling was not unknown.
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