And so, in truth,
she would have, had it been for herself. But for Sylvia! Could she
so far humble herself for Sylvia's sake?
The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been
the case in the matters of the grape jug and the book of poems.
For a whole week the Old Lady fought her pride and bitterness.
Sometimes, in the hours of sleepless night, when all human resentments and
rancours seemed petty and contemptible, she thought she had conquered it.
But in the daytime, with the picture of her father looking down at
her from the wall, and the rustle of her unfashionable dresses,
worn because of Andrew Cameron's double dealing, in her ears,
it got the better of her again.
But the Old Lady's love for Sylvia had grown so strong and deep
and tender that no other feeling could endure finally against it.
Love is a great miracle worker; and never had its power been
more strongly made manifest than on the cold, dull autumn
morning when the Old Lady walked to Bright River railway
station and took the train to Charlottetown, bent on an errand
the very thought of which turned her soul sick within her.
The station master who sold her her ticket thought Old Lady Lloyd
looked uncommonly white and peaked--"as if she hadn't slept a wink
or eaten a bite for a week," he told his wife at dinner time.
Pages:
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82