Monday.
On my way to the hospital this morning, I stopped at the weaving-house to see more of the little girl who can work such wonders with Philip. After careful scrutiny of, and conversation with the pretty, dignified child at the loom, I understood something of her power. She has the look of the ideal woman, suggesting many beautiful and elusive things, and judging from her perfect manners, might have been reared in marble halls instead of in a two-room log house on the head of Wace. She has distinctly the look of race,—and her name, how it carries one back through centuries of English history! If the magnificent earl, "proud setter-up and plucker-down of kings" were himself her ancestor, he could feel nothing but pride in this fair little shoot of his noble tree.
Before I went into the jail to see Blant after dinner, the keeper told me of a touching and remarkable thing. Old Mrs. Tarrant, Rich's mother, rode over yesterday to tell Blant that, although he had darkened the light of the sun-ball for her, she freely forgave him, and hoped he would forgive himself,—that she knew this would be Rich's message to him if he could speak. Her words should have comforted him some; and when I went in, it seemed to me that his face, though infinitely sad, was more at peace.
Tuesday.
The nurse told me this morning that Nucky would be permitted to leave the hospital and return to the cottage to-night; and I realized that the time had come when I could no longer keep from him the sad occurrences on Trigger. So after dinner, taking his hands in mine, I told him the dreadful tale. He heard it with a white face, expressing neither joy over Todd's death, nor sorrow over Rich's (these Marrses seem to have abnormal powers of emotional repression), and only said, "I'll go right down to Blant."
"Yes, do," I said, "the sight of you may be just what he needs."
On his return to the cottage after supper, "Trojan" was loudly and joyfully welcomed by the other boys; but grief and anxiety were plainly written on his face, he had little to say, and seemed much older.
Friday.
At noon yesterday Philip came in clamoring for a patch for his elbow,—formerly he would have died rather than sew on a patch. I was not surprised to hear from Hen later that he "had heared Dilsey tell Philip at recess she couldn't abide raggeddy boys". And this morning when Philip burst into my room with the demand, "Gimme a latch-pin", and after some pondering I handed him out a safety-pin, with which he proceeded to join together his sundered gallusses and trousers, Hen, who was making my bed, contributed, "She tolt him before breakfast she never had no respects for folks that went about with their clothes a-drapping off 'em!"
Oh that all my twelve would fall in love!