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Updated: June 8, 2025
Reading, with Joel, was not the idle pastime that more trivial minds find it; a thing, on the contrary, to be gone into with slow spelling, and face knitted up into savage sternness, especially now, when, as he gravely explained to Margret, "in HIS opinion the crissis was jest at hand, and ev'ry man must be seein' ef the gover'ment was carryin' out the views of the people."
"You seem to have looked at them very closely, Frau Margret." "From the wind-mill at the gate," replied the other. "The envoy stopped on the bridge directly under us. A handsome man on a stately horse. His trumpeter too was mounted, and the velvet cloth on his trumpet bristled with beautiful embroidery in gold thread and jewels. They earnestly entreated admittance, but the gate remained closed."
Margret looked up at her with a queer mirthfulness in her glance. 'Sure what wud a poor ould woman like me have to settle? Sure that's what they say when a sthrong-farmer takes to dyin'. Mrs. Jack was too fearful of possible consequences to press the matter. She was anxious that Margret should have Fanny to look after the house and the fowl for her, but this Margret refused.
Lois and her father came out in the old cart in high state across the bleak, snowy hills, quite aglow with all they had seen at the farm-houses on the road. Margret had arranged a settle for the sick girl by the kitchen-fire, but they all came out to speak to her.
If she had risen to the full level of Joel's views, she might have considered these views tinctured with radicalism, as they consisted in the propriety of the immediate "impinging of the President." If Margret fell suddenly from the peak of outlook on life to the homely labor of cooking supper, some of the healthy heroic flush of the knightly days and the hearth-fire went down with her, I think.
"Who are you in mourning for, auntie?" asked Margaret. "My ol' man, Miss Margret. Happened so lucky! He jest died Sat'day night, an' we buried him on Sunday, an' here I am goin' round on Monday, not losin' any time. Happened so lucky!" Jim went into spasms of merriment over the economy of the incident. The Whitneys had moved in May, to the great regret of everybody.
Bargain and sale, it taints our religion, our brains, our flags, yours and mine, Knowles, with the rest. Did you never hear of those abject spirits who entered neither heaven nor hell, who were neither faithful to God nor rebellious, caring only for themselves?" He paused, fairly out of breath. Margret looked up. Knowles was silent.
Later in the evening you would see a man coming along, close by the wall, with his head down, the same Margret had seen in the mill, a dark man, with gray, thin hair, Joe Yare, Lois's old father. No one spoke to him, people always were looking away as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr.
Stolid, sensual wretches, with here and there a broad, melancholy brow, and desperate jaws. One little pickaninny rubbed its sleepy eyes, and laughed at them. "So much flesh and blood out of the market, unweighed!" Margret took up the child, kissing its brown face. Knowles looked at her. "Would you touch her? I forgot you were born down South. Put it down, and come on." They went out of the door.
I'll crack sixpence betune yez when I get there. The lads, full of curiosity, lifted up the trunk, and preceded her up the mile or so of hill to Margret's. She stalked after them into the sunny kitchen where Margret sat waiting, handed them the sixpence when they had put down the trunk, bundled them out and shut the door before she looked towards Margret in her chimney-corner.
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