Cold Pastoral by Margaret Duley Page B

of it. I heard her mother say she used to pick her a posy, and my girl didn’t mind if she touched her. That’s a lot in this Cove.”
    â€œAh,” said the sergeant thoughtfully.
    â€œWhat help would that be?” asked Benedict. “It’s sense you want to search the woods. I’m done. I’m goin’ back to the beach.”
    â€œPity to give up, Mr. Keilly.”
    â€œI’ve got six sons and a woman to feed, and I’m behind for the spring. ’Tis no good. Come and have a bite with us and talk to her mother,” he said civilly. Benedict was determined. Straightening his shoulders, his long rubbers slushed through the snow. He knew work, endurance, acceptance and the faculty of keeping his mind on his hands. What sorrow he felt for the loss of his daughter was dulled by the strain of his body. He had glimpsed in her something different from himself, but he was not fitted for the processes of thought, and she lasted in his mind like the memory of intensified summer. She was beyond him. Much better he understood the ways of his skiff.
    As a father the sergeant dismissed him and returned to his study of Molly Conway. She had stopped another police man, climbing down by the waterfall. Whimpering, she fell back when he brushed her aside.
    A few steps brought the sergeant to her side.
    â€œHello,” he said genially.
    Kind vibrations reached Molly Conway. Wheeling on her scow-like feet she examined his face. Wonderingly, the odd pair regarded each other. Both were baffied, but both wanted the same thing.
    â€œHello,” he said again, reassured by her eyes. The police sergeant recognised her gently, as Mary Immaculate had when tendering bouquets of flowers. The changeling gibbered into formless speech. Old hands plucked at his sleeves, while her shawl sprawled away from her back.
    â€œAll right, Mother,” he said receptively, “I believe you! Now, where do you want to go?”
    It was Molly Conway’s great day. The sergeant swooped after her shawl and gave it a comfortable hoist over her shoulders.
    â€œThere, Mother, keep yourself warm. It’s not summer, you know.”
    One look behind told her he was following. Reaching the waterfall she made upward motions and started a scrambling climb. From a position of grotesque unbalance she was drawn back, while a pat and a smile stilled her to patience. The sergeant raised his voice and yelled down the valley.
    â€œHere, you, run and get Mr. Keilly! Tell her mother we’re going to try again. Get the party together and the first aid equipment.”
    A policeman gaped for a minute at Molly Conway and then slushed down the valley.
    Hope that had waned to acceptance sprang back to hope. People began running, and soon Benedict was seen returning from the direction of the beach, while Josephine almost fell down the slope. Reaching the waterfall, the sergeant’s quick hand saved her from sprawling on her face.
    â€œSteady now,” he said kindly.
    â€œGlory be to God!” she sobbed. “Have you found her?”
    â€œNot yet, ma’am, but I think we’re going to. We’ve tried sense. Now I’m going to give this woman the lead.”
    â€œMolly Conway,” moaned Josephine.”’Tis the will of God. I might have known! I should have guessed.” Feverishly she blessed herself, while tears made dirty rivers on her cheeks.
    Benedict clod-hoppered up and heard the new plan. “Molly Conway,” he muttered. “She couldn’t find the head of a pin.”
    â€œShush, Benedict,” reproved his wife. “We must have faith. ’Tis strange ways He chooses sometimes.”
    Benedict grunted but squared his shoulders for another tramp.
    Walking like a scow lying back on its keel Molly Conway led the way. In her awkward scramble up the slope the sergeant lent a hand, but when she was on the heights he let her go. She walked like a woman certain of her