Seated by her window or in a sunny
corner of the piazza, she would watch the unfolding buds as if she were
listening to some sweet old story that had grown dearer with every
repetition. Indeed, this was true, for with the blossoms of every year
were interwoven the memories of a long life, and their associations had
scarcely ever been more to her heart than the new ones now forming. She
often saw, with her children and grandchildren, the form of a tall girl
passing to and fro, and to her loving eyes Amy seemed to be the fairest
and sweetest flower of this gala period. She, and indeed they all, had
observed Burt's strongly manifested preference, but, with innate
refinement and good sense, there had been a tacit agreement to appear
blind. The orphan girl should not be annoyed by even the most delicate
raillery, but the old lady and her husband could not but feel the deepest
satisfaction that Bart was making so wise a choice. They liked Amy all
the better because she was so little disposed to sentiment, and proved
that she was not to be won easily.
But they all failed to understand her, and gave her credit for a maturity
that she did not possess. In her happy, healthful country life the
girlish form that had seemed so fragile when she first came to them was
taking on the rounded lines of womanhood. Why should she not be wooed
like other girls at her age? Burt was further astray than any one else,
and was even inclined to complain mentally that her nature was cold and
unresponsive.
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