Connie's face was bright with the brightness of a lake
in the rosy evening, the sound of the river flowing in and the sound of the
river flowing forth just audible, but itself still, and content to be still
and mirror the sunset. Dora's was bright with the brightness of a marigold
that follows the sun without knowing it; and Eliza's was bright with the
brightness of a half-blown cabbage rose, radiating good-humour. This last
is not a good simile, but I cannot find a better. I confess failure, and go
on.
After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be
carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china
figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they were,
where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her to carry
her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads through which
were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches of heather all
about were showing their bells, though not yet in their autumnal outburst
of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded of Scotland, in which I had
travelled a good deal between the ages of twenty and five-and-twenty.
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