Here, on the dam, of course, my vision was
further aided by the fact that whatever of trees and
shrubs there was in the way--and a ridge of poplars ran
at right angles to the ditch, throwing up a leafy curtain
in summer--stood bare of its foliage. I was still nearly
four miles from my "home" when I first beheld it. And
how pitiably lonesome it looked! Not another house was
to be seen in its neighbourhood. I touched the horses up
with my whip. I felt as if I should fly across the distance
and bring my presence to those in the cottage as their
dearest gift. They knew I was coming. They were at this
very moment flying to meet me with their thoughts. Was
I well? Was I finding everything as I had wished to find
it? And though I often told them how I loved and enjoyed
my drives, they could not view them but with much anxiety,
for they were waiting, waiting, waiting... Waiting on
Thursday for Friday to come, waiting on Wednesday and
Tuesday and Monday--waiting on Sunday even, as soon as
I had left; counting the days, and the hours, and the
minutes, till I was out, fighting storm and night to my
heart's content! And then--worry, worry, worry--what
might not happen! Whatever my drives were to me, to them
they were horrors.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104