That was less than an hour ago; yet here, on the last hill to
Drift and within sight of the stone houses clustering at the summit, her
head sank lower and lower, and it was not the rain which dimmed her eyes.
She much doubted the value of further prayers now, yet every frantic hope
and aspiration found its vent in a petition to her new God, as Joan mounted
the hill. She prayed, because she could think of no other way to soothe her
heart; but her mind was very weary and sad--not at the spectacle of the
future, for that she knew was going to be fair enough--but at the vision of
the past, at the years ended forever, at the early pages of life closed and
locked, to be opened again no more. A childhood, mostly quite happy, was
over; she would probably visit the house wherein she was born never again.
But even in her sorrow, the girl wondered why she should be sad.
Mr. Chirgwin's farm fronted the highway, and its gray stone face was
separated therefrom by a small and neat patch of garden. Below the house a
gate opened into the farmyard, and Uncle Chirgwin's land chiefly sloped
away into the coomb behind, though certain fields upon the opposite side of
the highroad also pertained to him. The farmhouse was time-stained, and the
stone had taken some wealth of color where black and golden lichens fretted
it. The slates of the roof shone with wet and reflected a streak of white
light that now broke the clouds near the hidden sun.
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