Rose Mary's milk-house was nestled between the
breasts of a low hill, upon which was perched the wide-winged, old
country house which had brooded the fortunes of the Alloways since the
wilderness days. The spring which gushed from the back wall of the
milk-house poured itself into a stone trough on the side of the Road,
which had been placed there generations agone for the refreshment of
beast, while man had been entertained within the hospitable stone
walls. And at the foot of the Briars, as the Alloway home, hill,
spring and meadows had been called from time immemorial, clustered the
little village of Sweetbriar.
The store, which also sheltered the post-office, was almost opposite
the spring-house door across the wide Road, the blacksmith shop
farther down and the farm-houses stretched fraternally along either
side in both directions. Far up the Road, as it wound its way around
Providence Nob, could be seen the chimneys and the roofs of
Providence, while Springfield and Boliver also lay like smoke-wreathed
visions in the distance. Something of the peace and plenty of it all
had begun to smooth the irritated wrinkle from between Mark Everett's
brows, when Rose Mary's hand rested for a second over his on the table
and her rich voice, with its softest brooding note, came from across
her bowl.
"Ah, I know it's hard for you, Mr. Mark," she said, "and I wish--I
wish--The lilacs will be in bloom next week, won't that help some?"
And the wooing tone in her voice was exactly what she used in coaxing
young Stonewall Jackson to bed or Uncle Tucker to tie up his throat in
a flannel muffler.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25