But in less than ten, they were driving down toward the river.
Margaret Rushleigh had betaken herself to her own cool chamber, where the delicate straw matting, and pale green, leaf-patterned chintz of sofa, chairs, and hangings, gave a feeling of the last degree of summer lightness and daintiness, and the gentle air breathed in from the southwest, sifted, on the way, of its sunny heat, by the green draperies of vine and branch it wandered through.
Lying there, on the cool, springy cushions of her couch—turning the fresh-cut leaves of the August Mishaumok—she forgot the wheels and the spindles—the hot mills, and the ceaseless whir.
Just at that moment of her utter comfort and content, a young factory girl dropped, fainting, in the dizzy heat, before her loom.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AT THE MILLS.
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"For all day the wheels are droning, turning,— Their wind comes in our faces,— Till our hearts turn,—our head with pulses burning,— And the walls turn in their places." Mrs. Browning. |
Faith sat silent by Mr. Rushleigh's side, drinking in, also, with a cool content, the river air that blew upon their faces as they drove along.