She seemed to
enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of the
meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we met
bravely diligent at their day's work, as they trudged along the road with
wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that I could see
her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its expression
that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a brown-faced gipsy
family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the passing carriage. A
fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under the convoy of the parent
duck, next attracted her.
"Look; look. Isn't that delicious?" she cried.
"I don't think I should like it though," said Wynnie.
"What shouldn't you like, Wynnie?" asked her mother.
"To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!"
"They feel it with their legs and their webby toes," said Connie.
"Yes, that is some consolation," answered Wynnie.
"And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in
winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning."
I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie's illness had not
in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies--had rather, as
it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and sympathetic,
so that the things around her could enter her soul even more easily than
before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in reality brought her into
closer contact with the movements of all vitality.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162