“Broken hearts,” she had said to Sarah, during a confidential chat upon the subject, “are only kept from mending by them as talks sympathy. There isn’t nothin’ like mixing with folks what’s got their own troubles to worrit over. She’ll get all that for sure when she gets to one o’ them cities. Cities is full of purgat’ry,” she added profoundly. “I shall send her down to sister Emma, she’s one o’ them hustlin’ women that’ll never let the child rest a minute.”
And Sarah had approved feelingly.
So Prudence was safely dispatched eastwards for an indefinite period before the spring opened. But Hephzibah Malling had yet to realize that her daughter had suddenly developed from a child, who looked to her mother’s guidance in all the more serious questions of life, into a woman of strong feelings and opinions. This swift casting off of the fetters of childhood had been the work of those few passionate moments at the bedside of her dying lover.
Prudence had submitted to the sentence which her mother, backed by the doctor’s advice, had passed, and she went away. But in complying with the order she had performed the last act which childhood’s use had prompted. The period of her absence was indefinite. The fiat demanded no limitation to her stay with “sister” Emma. She could return when she elected so to do. Bred in the pure air of the prairie, no city could claim her for long. And so she returned to the farm against all opposition within two months of leaving it.
The spring brought another change to the farm, a change which was as welcome to the old farm-wife as the opening of the spring itself. Hervey returned from Niagara, bringing with him the story of the failure of his mission. True to herself and the advice of Iredale, Hephzibah made her proposition to her son, with the result that, with some show of distaste, he accepted the situation, and with his three-legged companion took up his abode at the farm.
And so the days lengthened and the summer heat increased; the hay in the sloughs ripened and filled the air with its refreshing odours; the black squares of ploughed land were quickly covered with the deepening carpet of green, succulent grain; the wild currant-bushes flowered, and the choke-cherries ripened on the laden branches, and the deep blue vault of the heavens smiled down upon the verdant world.
George Iredale again became a constant and welcome visitor at the farm, nor in her leisure did Sarah Gurridge seek relaxation in any other direction.
The morning was well advanced. The air was still and very hot. There was a peaceful drowsiness about the farm buildings and yard which was only broken by the occasional squeal of the mouching swine routing amongst any stray garbage their inquisitive eyes happened to light upon. The upper half of the barn door stood open, and in the cool shade of the interior could be seen the outline of dark, well-rounded forms looming between the heel-posts of the stalls which lined the side walls. An occasional impatient stamp from the heavily-shod hoofs told of the capacity for 136 annoyance of the ubiquitous fly or aggravating mosquito, whilst the steady grinding sound which pervaded the atmosphere within, and the occasional “gush” of distended nostrils testified to healthy appetites, and noses buried in mangers well filled with sweet-smelling “Timothy” hay.
The kitchen doorway was suddenly filled with the ample proportions of Hephzibah Malling. She moved out into the open. She was carrying a large pail filled with potato-parings and other fragments of culinary residuum. A large white sun-bonnet protected her grey head and shaded her now flaming face from the sun, and her dress, a neat study in grey, was enveloped in a huge apron.