At times Penhallow was dimly aware of his state; at others he resented
any effort to control him and was so angry when the doctor proposed a
consultation that the idea was too easily given up, for always in this
as in everything his wife agreed with him and indulged him as women
indulge a sick child. The village grieved for the Colonel who rode no
more through Westways with a gay word of greeting for all he met. The
iron-mills were busy. The great guns tested on the meadows now and then
shook the panes in the western windows of Grey Pine. They no longer
disturbed Ann Penhallow. The war went its thunderous way unheeded by her.
Unendingly hopeful, the oppression of disaster seemed only to confirm and
strengthen her finest qualities. Like the pine-tree winning vigour from
its rock-clasped roots, she gathered such hardening strength of soul and
body from his condition as the more happy years had never put at her
command.
"No letters to-day, Miss Leila," said the post-mistress standing beside
the younger woman's horse. "Just only them papers with their lists of
killed and wounded."
"I must always be Leila, not Miss Leila," said the horsewoman.
"Well--well--I like that better. How's the Colonel?"
"Much the same--certainly no worse. It is wonderful how my aunt stands
it.
Pages:
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516