SEVENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
Within, two hours of Martin's departure I had regained complete possession of myself and was feeling more happy than I had ever felt before.
The tormenting compunctions of the past months were gone. It was just as if I had obeyed some higher law of my being and had become a freer and purer woman.
My heart leapt within me and to give free rein to the riot of my joy I put on my hat and cloak to go into the glen.
Crossing the garden I came upon Tommy the Mate, who told me there had been a terrific thunderstorm during the night, with torrential rain, which had torn up all the foreign plants in his flower-beds.
"It will do good, though," said the old man. "Clane out some of their dirty ould drains, I'm thinkin'."
Then he spoke of Martin, whom he had seen off, saying he would surely come back.
"'Deed he will though. A boy like yander wasn't born to lave his bark in the ice and snow . . . Not if his anchor's at home, anyway"—with a "glime" in my direction.
How the glen sang to me that morning! The great cathedral of nature seemed to ring with music—the rustling of the leaves overhead, the ticking of the insects underfoot, the bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle, the light chanting of the stream, the deep organ-song of the sea, and then the swelling and soaring Gloria in my own bosom, which shot up out of my heart like a lark out of the grass in the morning.