What a triumph,
then, is every fine old man! To have come out of a long life with a
spirit still sunny, is not that an heroic accomplishment?
Of the real life of our friend I know only one thing; but that thing is
precious to me, for it gives me a glimpse of the far dim Alps that rise
out of the Plains of Contentment. It is nothing very definite--such
things never are; and yet I like to think of it when I see her treading
the useful round of her simple life. As I said, she has lived here in
this neighbourhood--oh, sixty years. The country knew her father before
her. Out of that past, through the dimming eyes of some of the old
inhabitants, I have had glimpses of the sprightly girlhood which our
friend must have enjoyed. There is even a confused story of a wooer (how
people try to account for every old maid!)--a long time ago--who came
and went away again. No one remembers much about him--such things are
not important, of course, after so many years----
But I must get to _the_ thing I treasure. One day Harriet called at the
little house. It was in summer and the door stood open; she presumed on
the privilege of friendship and walked straight in. There she saw,
sitting at the table, her head on her arm in a curious girlish abandon
unlike the prim Miss Aiken we knew so well, our Old Maid.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94