Martha Blewett was a warped and
ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much
truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before?
Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom;
of course the little gray house where she was born would seem
a poor abode after the splendours of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw
walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes.
How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten
the old house! He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room.
It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago.
But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture
old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place.
Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now.
Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed of her
stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands,
and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything
that went to make up his uneventful life.
Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied
even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought
White Sands folk must see him--a poor, shiftless, foolish old man,
who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his little girl,
and had not been of enough account to keep her.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181