In the twenty years that followed she had never even
revisited Avonlea. Her sudden descent on it this summer was a whim
born of a moment's homesick longing for this same old garden.
She had not thought about Peter. In very truth, she had
thought little about Peter for the last fifteen years.
She supposed that she had forgotten him. But now, sitting on
the old doorstep, where she had often sat in her courting days,
with Peter lounging on a broad stone at her feet, something tugged
at her heartstrings. She looked over the valley to the light
in the kitchen of the Wright farmhouse, and pictured Peter
sitting there, lonely and uncared for, with naught but the cold
comfort of his own providing.
"Well, he should have got married," she said snappishly.
"I am not going to worry because he is a lonely old bachelor when
all these years I have supposed him a comfy Benedict. Why doesn't
he hire him a housekeeper, at least? He can afford it;
the place looks prosperous. Ugh! I've a fat bank account,
and I've seen almost everything in the world worth seeing; but I've
got several carefully hidden gray hairs and a horrible conviction
that grammar isn't one of the essential things in life after all.
Pages:
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297