CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RED ROSE OF CUVIER RIVER
When I was able to be abroad some part of the day, Constance and I loitered at first about the garden beside the house, the plants of which were beginning to turn with the early frost. In the park across the way, where all the roads meet, the hickory and ash were already bare and staring, the limbs of the elm showing black and cold through the scant foliage that yet clung to their extended branches. The oak and willow still held their leaves, but discolored and of bilious hue, as if sick unto death. In pleasing contrast to these, and in rebuke, it seemed, the maples welcomed the frost with pink and red and paling yellow, as if they thought the coming winter a thing to look forward to with delight and not with dread.
The first day we ventured into the street we ran across Blott, grooming a horse near the stable door.
"Howdy do," he exclaimed, taking off his cap on seeing Constance; "I'm glad to see you out an' not lookin' so pale. It's a fine day for inv'lids, miss, an' purty for washin' an' dryin' things," he added, looking across the road at the sheets and pillow-cases flapping in the warm air.
"How are you, Blott, and the dapple-gray?" I cried, going to her. For it was Uncle Job's mare, and the one I had ridden to Appletop that morning.
"Hello, Gilbert! is that you? Well, I'd never know'd you," he exclaimed. "I'm glad to see you out agin, though, for 'ceptin' for you I'd not be curryin' horses now."
"Not this mare, anyway," I answered, stroking her fine face and looking into her mild responsive eyes.
"No; an' she's a good one if I'm a judge, an' fit to ride for one's life."
"So is every horse, Blott," I answered, rubbing my face against hers. "They'll all do the best they can."