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Wych Hazel by Anna Bartlett Warner;Susan Warner
page 122 of 648 (18%)
them as they swept on, the top of an old tower where the
sunbeams lay at rest; and from the top, its white staff
glittering with light, floated the heavy folds of a deep blue
flag, not at rest there, but curling and waving and shaking
out their white device, which was however too far off to be
distinguished. She had said she would tell him, but she never
spoke; after that one little cry, so full of tears and
laughter, he heard nothing but one or two sobs, low and choked
down. Now the lodge, nestling like an acorn under a great oak
tree, came in sight first, then the massive piers of the gate.
The gate was wide open, but while the little undergrowth of
children started up and took possession of window and door and
roadside, the gate was held by the head of the house, a
sturdy, middle aged American. Wych Hazel had leaned out,
watching the children; but as the carriage turned through the
gateway, and she saw this man, standing there uncovered,
caught the working of his brown weatherbeaten face, she bowed
her head indeed, in answer to his low salutation, but then
dropped her face in her hands in a perfect passion of weeping.
It came and went like a Summer storm, and again she was
looking intently. Now past Mr. Falkirk's white domicile, where
her glittering eyes flashed round upon him the "welcome home"
which her lips spoke but unsteadily,--then on, on, up the hill,
the thick trees hiding the sunset and brushing the carriage
with leafy hands,--it seemed to Mr. Rollo that still as the
very fingers of his companion were, he could almost feel the
bound of her spirit. Then out on a little platform of the
road--and there, he did not know why she leaned forward so
eagerly, till he saw across the dell the shining of white
marble.
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