"That is too large and heavy for you to carry, Gabriella," said he. "Look at the palm of your hand, there is quite a red groove there made by that iron handle."
"Never mind," I answered, twisting my handkerchief carelessly round the tingling palm, "I must get used to it. Peggy is sick and there is no one to carry water now but myself. When she is well, she will never let me do any thing of the kind."
"You should not," said he, decidedly. "You are not strong enough,—you must get another servant.—I will inquire in the village myself this morning, and send you one."
"O no, my mother would never consent to a stranger coming into the family. Besides, no one could take Peggy's place. She is less a servant than a friend."
I turned away to hide the tears that I could not keep back. Peggy's illness, though not of an alarming character, showed that even her iron constitution was not exempt from the ills which flesh is heir to,—that the strong pillar on which we leaned so trustingly could vibrate and shake, and what would become of us if it were prostrated to the earth; the lonely column of fidelity and truth, to which we clung so adhesively; the sheet anchor which had kept us from sinking beneath the waves of adversity? I had scarcely realized Peggy's mortality before, she seemed so strong, so energetic, so untiring. I would as soon have thought of the sun's being weary in its mighty task as of Peggy's strong arm waxing weak. I felt very sad, and the meeting with Richard Clyde, which had excited a momentary joy, now deepened my sadness. He looked so bright, so prosperous, so full of hope and life. He was no longer the school-boy whom I could meet on equal terms, but the student entered on a public career of honor and distinction,—the son of ambition, whose gaze was already fixed on the distant hill-tops of fame. There was nothing in his countenance or manner that gave this impression, but my own morbid sensitiveness. The dawning feelings of womanhood made me blush for the plainness and childishness of my dress, and then I was ashamed of my shame, and blushed the more deeply.
"I am glad to see you again," I said, stooping to raise my brimming pail,—"I suppose I must not call you Richard now."
"Yes, indeed, I hope and trust none of my old friends will begin to Mr. Clyde me for a long time to come, and least, I mean most of all, you, Gabriella. We were always such exceedingly good friends, you know. But don't be in such a hurry, I have a thousand questions to ask, a thousand things to tell."
"I should love to hear them all, Richard, but I cannot keep my mother waiting."
Before I could get hold of the handle of the pail, he had seized it and was swinging it along with as much ease as if he had a bunch of roses in his hand. We ascended the little hill together, he talking all the time, in a spirited, joyous manner, laughing at his awkwardness as he stumbled against a rolling stone, wishing he was a school-boy again in the old academy, whose golden vane was once an object of such awe and admonition in his eyes.
"By the way, Gabriella," he asked, changing from subject to subject with marvellous rapidity, "do you ever write poetry now?"