Mr. Longworth was growing so strong
that Wilson's position was almost entirely a sinecure, and he spent most
of his time lounging in the one village store, relating remarkable
stories of New York to a circle of open-mouthed idlers. Day by day, I
watched the lessening pallor and the growing health of Mr. Longworth's
face, and saw him visibly gain strength. He could carry all the rugs and
books and writing materials to our sylvan sanctum without fatigue, and
he was so boyishly proud of his health that he used to exhaust himself
with too long walks, for which I administered lectures that he always
received submissively. One warm morning we had spent an hour in writing.
I had grown tired, and throwing down my pen and pad, I left Mr.
Longworth still at work, and strayed out into the field in the sun.
There had been no rain for days, and the locusts filled the air with
their _zeeing_. The wide field was dotted with golden patches of the
arnica blossom, or yellow daisy, as the farmers called it. I wandered
through the hot, knee-high grass, picking handfuls of the broad yellow
suns, then childishly threw them away, and pulled others, with great
heads of sweet red clover, and spears of timothy too. I was so happy. My
whole being was filled with causeless peace and gladness. From time to
time I glanced back to the shade of the oak trees, to the tall, slender
figure, with the dark head bent over the white sheets of manuscript, and
I sang softly a little song for very joy of my life.
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