CHAPTER XIV.
Morning broke in all its splendor over the little village she had left behind.
Dewy flowers, touched by the rising day, glittered in their beds of green, while mists, etherial as air, hung over the verdant meadows. Long lines of hills whose tops rested against the blue sky, mirrored their heads in the waters which flowed at their feet.
Beauty was on every hand. In whatever direction the eye turned, it beheld the smile of God, and all nature seemed a psalm of thanksgiving.
Caleb Thorne arose, and shaking off dull sleep, called Margaret to her morning duties, while his wife bustled about the house in her usual manner.
Neither looked on the lovely scene before them. If their eyes chanced to turn in its direction, their souls took no cognizance of all the wealth of beauty which was before them.
“What on earth keeps that gal up stairs so long,” said Mrs. Thorne, “I'll call her and bring her down I guess,—Mar-ga-ret-Mar-ga-ret Thorne; it's most six o'clock-get up.”
No sound; no footstep. She waited a full half hour, then Caleb returned from the barn, having milked the cows, a labor which he had performed since Margaret's illness.
“That gal ain't up yet,” said his wife, as he came and placed the pails on the table.
His breath came fast, for he feared she might be ill, or dead, perhaps.