Upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into the carriage, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with Gertrude, an experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. In the early autumn, when Emily's health was restored, old Charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes Mrs. Ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned buggy, and Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great source of happiness. Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Gertrude saw again the lazy youth whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name.
Gertrude blushed; she was sensitive about her name, and, though she went by that of Flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no surname of her own. Emily had tried to find Nan Grant, in order to learn from her something of Gertrude's early history; but Nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHANGES.
It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and, wearied by excessive heat, Emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. Ten years had passed since Emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's church.
She had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain. Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore, time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life. Still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as Emily acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become, what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her benefactor.
On the present occasion, as Emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. She held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her features.
At length, some one approaches the gate. None but Emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam Gertrude, for she has now become a young lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station.
Gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. Her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle does not hide the roundness of her taper waist.