Boynton's bed and set out a tray with a damask napkin
and the best of my cooking; then I would go out to the back door
where the woodbine hangs like a red waterfall and blow the
dinner-horn for my men down in the harvest-field! All the woman
in me is wasting, wasting! Oh! my dear, dear man, how I long for
him! Oh! my own dear man, my helpmate, shall I ever live by his
side? I love him, I want him, I need him!
And my dear little unmothered, unfathered boy, how happy I could
make him! How I should love to cook and sew for them all and wrap
them in comfort! How I should love to smooth my dear mother's
last days,--for she is my mother, in spirit, in affection, in
desire, and in being Ivory's!"
Waitstill's longing, her discouragement, her helplessness,
overcame her wholly, and she flung herself down under a tree in
the pasture in a very passion of sobbing, a luxury in which she
could seldom afford to indulge herself. The luxury was
short-lived, for in five minutes she heard Rodman's voice, and
heard him running to meet her as he often did when she came to
their house or went away from it, dogging her footsteps or
Patty's whenever or wherever he could waylay them.
"Why, my dear, dear Waity, did you tumble and hurt yourself?" the
boy cried.
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