If I try to remember all the trivial incidents of to-day, at full length, it is because it has been such an exceedingly happy day: to preserve which from the chances of this mortal life, “the sundry and manifold changes of this world,” as the prayer says, I here write them down.
How vague, how incompatible with the humdrum tenor of our quiet days at Rockmount that collect used to sound!
“That amidst the sundry and manifold changes of this world, our hearts may surely there be fixed, where true joys are to le found, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” Now, as if newly understanding it, I also repeat, “Amen.”
We started, Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, and I. We went through the village, down the moorland-road, to the ponds, which Augustus wanted to examine, with a view to wild-duck shooting, next, or, rather, I might say, this winter, for Christmas is coming close upon us, though the weather is still so mild.
Lisa and her husband walked on first, and quickly left us far behind; for, not having been out for so long, except the daily stroll round the garden, which Doctor Urquhart had insisted upon, the fresh air seemed to turn me dizzy. I managed to stumble on through the village, keeping up talk, too, for Doctor Urquhart hardly said anything, until we came out upon the open moor, bright, breezy, sunshiny. Then I felt a choking—a longing to cry out or sob—my head swam round and round.
“Are you wearied?—you look as if you were.”
“Will you like to take my arm?”
“Sit down—sit down on this stone—my child!”
I heard these sentences distinctly, one after the other, but could not answer. I felt my bonnet-strings untied, and the wind blowing on my face—then all grew light again, and I looked round.
“Do not be frightened; you will be well in a minute or two. I only wonder that you have kept up so bravely, and are so strong.”