"I'll qualify to your being safe enough," said the doctor. "But, Miss Ringgan, my dear, you are a you have lost something since you came out "
"What?" said Fleda, laughing. "Not my patience?"
"No," said the doctor, "no you're a you're an angel! but your cheeks, my dear Miss Ringgan, show that you have exceeded your a "
"Not my intentions, doctor," said Fleda, lightly. "I am very well satisfied with our day's work, and with my share of it, and a cup of coffee will make me quite up again. Don't look at my cheeks till then."
"I shall disobey you constantly," said the doctor; "but, my dear Miss Fleda, we must give you some felicities for reaching home, or Mrs. Rossitur will be a distressed when she sees them. Might I propose that you should just bear your weight on this wood-sled, and let my oxen and me have the honour The cup of coffee, I am confident, would be at your lips considerably earlier "
"The sun wont be a great haighth by the time we get there," said Philetus, in a cynical manner; "and I ha'n't took the first thing to-day!"
"Well, who has?" said the doctor; "you aint the only one. Follow your nose down hill, Mr. Skillcorn, and it'll smell supper directly. Now, my dear Miss Ringgan, will you?"
Fleda hesitated, but her relaxed energies warned her not to despise a homely mode of relief. The wood-sled was pretty clean, and the road decently good over the snow. So Fleda gathered her cloak about her, and sat down flat on the bottom of her rustic vehicle too grateful for the rest to care if there had been a dozen people to laugh at her but the doctor was only delighted, and Philetus regarded every social phenomenon as coolly, and in the same business light, as he would the butter to his bread, or any other infallible every- day matter.
Fleda was very glad presently that she had taken this plan, for, besides the rest of body, she was happily relieved from all necessity of speaking. The doctor, though but a few paces off, was perfectly given up to the care of his team, in the intense anxiety to show his skill and gallantry in saving her harmless from every ugly place in the road that threatened a jar or a plunge. Why his oxen didn't go distracted was a question; but the very vehemence and iteration of his cries at last drowned itself in Fleda's ear, and she could hear it like the wind's roaring, without thinking of it. She presently subsided to that. With a weary frame, and with that peculiar quietness of spirits that comes upon the ending of a day's work in which mind and body have both been busily engaged, and the sudden ceasing of any call upon either, fancy asked no leave, and dreamily roved hither and thither between the material and the spirit world; the will too subdued to stir. Days gone by came marshalling their scenes and their actors before her; again she saw herself a little child under those same trees that stretched their great black arms over her head, and, swaying their tops in the wind, seemed to beckon her back to the past. They talked of their old owner, whose steps had so often passed beneath them with her own light tread light now, but how dancing then! by his side; and of her father, whose hand perhaps had long ago tapped those very trees where she had noticed the old closed-up scars of the axe. At any rate, his boyhood had rejoiced there, and she could look back to one time at least in his manhood when she had taken a pleasant walk with him in summer weather among those same woods in that very ox-track she believed. Gone two generations that she had known there; hopes and fears and disappointments, akin to her own, at rest, as hers would be; and how sedately the old trees stood telling her of it, and waving their arms in grave and gentle commenting on the folly of anxieties that came and went with the wind. Fleda agreed to it all; she heard all they said; and her own spirit was as sober and quiet as their quaint moralizing. She felt as if it would never dance again.
The wind had greatly abated of its violence; as if satisfied with the show of strength it had given in the morning, it seemed willing to make no more commotion that day. The sun was far on his way to the horizon, and many a broad hill-side slope was in shadow; the snow had blown or melted from off the stones and rocks, leaving all their roughness and bareness unveiled; and the white crust of snow that lay between them looked a cheerless waste in the shade of the wood and the hill. But there were other spots where the sunbeams struck, and bright streams of light ran between the trees, smiling and making them smile. And as Fleda's eye rested there, another voice seemed to say "At evening time it shall be light," and "Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." She could have cried, but spirits were too absolutely at an ebb. She knew this was partly physical, because she was tired and faint, but it could not the better be overcome. Yet those streaks of sunlight were pleasant company, and Fleda watched them, thinking how bright they used to be once; till the oxen and sled came out from the woods, and she could see the evening colours on the hill-tops beyond the village, lighting up the whole landscape with promise of the morrow. She thought her day had seen its brightest; but she thought too that if she must know sorrows, it was a very great blessing to know them at Queechy.