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Updated: May 13, 2025
So fretting, he tossed himself against the bars through the long snows of an unusually severe March, until April broke the frost, and the road to the Byrdsnest became a morass of running mud. In the last two weeks Stefan had begun a portrait of Constance, but without enthusiasm.
In fact, I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My only stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide to give it up." He took her hand. "The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's mother; let us both understand that." Her lips trembled. "You are good to me." "No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist.
Of course you've always talked about France, and I should love to go there and see it, and so on, but somehow I've come to think of the Byrdsnest as home we've been so happy here " "Happy?" he interrupted her. "You say we've been happy?" His tone was utterly confounded. "Yes, dear, except except when you were so so busy last autumn "
She settled down to the task of creating by her labor and love a home where her three dependents and her three faithful helpmates could find the maximum of happiness and peace. The life of the Byrdsnest centered about Stefan; every one thought first of him and his needs. Next in order of consideration came Ellie and little Rosamond. Then Lily had to be remembered.
He started awake, to find himself on his back, the sun beating into his face, and the doctor's machine chugging down the lane. The little June baby at the Byrdsnest was very popular with the neighborhood. During the summer it seemed to Stefan that the house was never free of visitors who came to admire the child, guess his weight, and exclaim at his mother's health.
He shook his head. "Tch, tch! Quel dommage-what a pity!" he sighed, and putting down the picture undressed slowly, blew out the lamp, and went to bed. On a Saturday morning at the end of June, Mary stood by the gate of the Byrdsnest, looking down the lane. McEwan, who was taking a whole holiday from the office, had offered to fetch her mail from the village. Any moment he might be back.
Their first weeks at the Byrdsnest how happy they had been then, and how worshipfully he had looked at her the morning their son was born. All gone. She had another baby now, but he had never seen it never would see it, she supposed. Her memory traveled on, flitting over the dark places and lingering at every sunny peak of their marriage journey. Their week in Vermont!
Luckily, the Sparrow took to Jensen at once, so there was nothing to fear on that score. For the Sparrow was now a permanent part of Mary's life. She had a small independent income, but no home her widowed sister having gone west to live with a daughter and she looked upon herself as the appointed guardian of the Byrdsnest.
So lonely was she at this time that she would have asked little Miss Mason to stay with her, but for the lack of a spare bedroom. Of all her friends, only Mrs. Farraday remained at hand. Mary spent many hours at the old lady's house, and rejoiced each time the pony chaise brought her to the Byrdsnest. Mrs.
Youth and hope were in the house, youth was in the air and earth. Farraday's gardens were the pride of the neighborhood, these and the library expressing him as the house did his mother. Several times he sent down an armful of flowers to the Byrdsnest, and, one Sunday morning, Mary had just finished arranging such a bunch in her vases when she heard the chug of an automobile in the lane.
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