The Old Lady felt as if she could NOT endure the ache of it.
Everything hurt her--the new green tips on the firs, the fairy
mists down in the little beech hollow below the house, the fresh
smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in her garden.
The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for
very heartache. She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger;
and the Old Lady had been hungry, more or less, all that week.
She was living on store biscuits and water, so that she
might be able to pay Crooked Jack for digging her garden.
When the pale, lovely dawn-colour came stealing up the sky
behind the spruces, the Old Lady buried her face in her pillow
and refused to look at it.
"I hate the new day," she said rebelliously. "It will be just like all
the other hard, common days. I don't want to get up and live it.
And, oh, to think that long ago I reached out my hands joyfully
to every new day, as to a friend who was bringing me good tidings!
I loved the mornings then--sunny or gray, they were as delightful
as an unread book--and now I hate them--hate them--hate them!"
But the Old Lady got up nevertheless, for she knew
Crooked Jack would be coming early to finish the garden.
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