Robina talked for about ten minutes. By the time she had done she
had persuaded Dick that life in the backwoods of Canada had been his
dream from infancy. She is that sort of girl.
I tried talking reason, but talking to Robin when she has got a
notion in her head is like trying to fix a halter on a two-year-old
colt. This tumble-down, six-roomed cottage was to be the saving of
the family. An ecstatic look transfigured Robina's face even as she
spoke of it. You might have fancied it a shrine. Robina would do
the cooking. Robina would rise early and milk the cow, and gather
the morning egg. We would lead the simple life, learn to fend for
ourselves. It would be so good for Veronica. The higher education
could wait; let the higher ideals have a chance. Veronica would make
the beds, dust the rooms. In the evening Veronica, her little basket
by her side, would sit and sew while I talked, telling them things,
and Robina moved softly to and fro about her work, the household
fairy. The Little Mother, whenever strong enough, would come to us.
We would hover round her, tending her with loving hands. The English
farmer must know something, in spite of all that is said. Dick could
arrange for lessons in practical farming. She did not say it
crudely; but hinted that, surrounded by example, even I might come to
take an interest in honest labour, might end by learning to do
something useful.
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