There is the sun, a great round bulb of liquid electricity, open to all the eyes that look into the sky; but do you fancy any one owns that sun but I? Not a bit of it! There is no record of deed that matches mine, no words that can describe what conferences sun and I do hold. The cloudy tent-door was closed, the sun was not "at home" to me, as I went down to life on the second day of March, 1860.
Sophie seemed stupid and commonplace that morning. Aaron had a headache, (that theologic thorn, I know,) and Sophie must go and sit beside him, and hold the thread of his Sunday's discourse to paper, whilst with wrapped brow and vision-seeing eyes he told her what his people ought to do.
Good Sophie! I forgave her, when she put sermons away, and came down to talk a little to me. It is easy to forgive people for goodness to others, when they are good to one's self just afterwards.
"Do you know any Herbert in Redleaf?" I ventured to ask, with as careless a tone as I knew.
"No, Anna;--let me think;--I thought I knew,--but no, it is not here. Why?"
"It doesn't matter. I thought there might be a person with that name.--Don't you get very tired of this hum-drum life?"
"But it isn't hum-drum in the least, except in bee-time, and on General-Training days."
"Oh, Sophie! you know what I mean."
"Well, I confess to liking a higher development of intellectual nature than I find in Redleaf, but I feel that I belong to it, I ought to be here; and feeling atones for much lack of mind,--it gets up higher, nearer into the soul. You know, Anna, we ought to love Redleaf. Look across that maple-grove."
"What is there?"