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Updated: June 13, 2025
She lived some two miles out of St. Rest, but always attended Walden's church regularly, driving thither with her family in a solemnly closed private omnibus of the true 'county' type. She professed great interest in all Church matters, on the ground that she was herself the daughter of a dead-and-gone clergyman.
They did not hear a stealthy rustle among the branches of the chestnut-tree near which they stood, nor see a long lithe shadow creep towards them for the dense low-hanging foliage. Face to face, eye to eye, they remained for a moment's space as though ready to close and wrestle, then suddenly Walden's arm dropped to his side. "My God!" he muttered "I nearly struck you!"
Unaware of the gossip going on around her, Maryllia stayed where she was at the window, coldly silent, her eyes fixed on the glowing flower-beds patterned in front of her, the gorgeous mass of petunias, and flame-colored geraniums, the rich saffron and brown tints of thick clustered calceolarias, the purple and crimson of pendulous fuchsias, whose blossoms tumbled one upon the other in a riot of splendid colour, and all at once her thoughts strayed capriciously to the cool green seclusion of John Walden's garden.
Walden's address since that last whisper, "So you are destined to immortality, remember." Words spoken in jest, and yet thrilling her through and through with a solemn meaning. She had always known and always believed this. She was no skeptic, yet her heart had never taken it in, with a great throb of anxiety, as it did at that moment. Was she being led of the Spirit of God?
Some miles below Chickamauga Creek, near Chattanooga, Lookout Mountain towers aloft into the clouds; at its base the river bends round Moccasin Point, and then rushes through a gap between Walden's Ridge and the Raccoon Hills.
Walden's voice rang clear and sonorous, the sunshine pouring through the plain glass of the high rose-window behind and above him, shed effulgence over the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar and struck from its alabaster whiteness a kind of double light which, circling round his tall slight figure made it stand out in singularly bold relief.
The whole made a cavalcade of nearly eighty persons. The three principal ranges of the Alleghany, over which they must pass, were designated as Powell's, Walden's, and Cumberland. These mountains forming the barrier between the old settlements and the new country, stretch from the north-east to the south-west. They are of great length and breadth, and not far distant from each other.
There was no wise person to note and take warning of the strange light in Ann Walden's eyes as she met the question put to her; it was, however, the look of insanity the insanity which feeds upon hallucination; the kind that evolves from isolated repression and the abnormal introspection of the self-cultured. "When you are older, Cynthia." "No, now, Aunt Ann. I must know.
For he guessed Walden's secret, and was deeply touched by the quiet patience and restrained sorrow of the apparently calm, self-contained man who, notwithstanding his own inward acute agony, never forgot a single detail having to do with the poor or sick of the parish, who soothed little Ipsie Frost's bewildered grief concerning her 'poor bootiful white lady-love, and who sat with old Josey Letherbarrow by his cottage fire, trying as best he could to explain, ay, even to excuse the mysterious ways of divine Providence as apparently shown in the visitation of cruel affliction on the head of a sweet and innocent woman.
"As I told you before, I know nothing about her return," replied Leach, obstinately; "I am not supposed to know. And whether she's here or away, makes no difference to me. I know what's to be done, and I shall do it." Walden's eyes flashed.
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