Worse--far
worse than her father's rage or Uncle Chirgwin's tears was this. Amos
Bartlett represented the world's attitude. The world would not be angry
with her, or cry for her; it would merely laugh and pass on, like Mr.
Bartlett. So Joan learned yet again; and the new knowledge cowed her for
full eight-and-forty hours. But the eyes of the mothers had taught Joan
something of the secret of pain, and a thread of gravity ran henceforth
through all thoughts concerning the future. She much marveled that "Mister
Jan" had never touched upon this leaf in the book. Beauty was what he
invariably talked about, and he found beauty hidden in many a strange
matter too; but not in pain. That was because he suffered himself
sometimes, Joan suspected. And yet, to her, pain, though she had never felt
it, seemed not wholly hideous. She surprised herself mightily by the depth
of her own thoughts now. She seemed to stand upon the brink of deep matters
guessing dimly at things hidden. Then her moods would break again from the
clouds to brightness. Hot sunshine on her cheek always raised her young
spirits, and her health, now excellent, threw joy into life despite the
ever-present anxiety. Then came a meeting which roused interest and brought
very genuine delight with it.
It happened upon a fine Sunday afternoon, when Joan was walking through the
fields on the farm--those which extended southward--that she reached a
stile where granite blocks lay lengthwise, like the rungs of a ladder,
between two uprights.
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