And yet--it is very strange!--she does not grieve: there is a sweet,
soft smile upon her lip,--a smile, that will come to you in your
fancied troubles of after-life with a deep voice of reproach.
Altogether you grow into a liking of the country: your boyish spirit
loves its fresh, bracing air, and the sparkles of dew that at sunrise
cover the hills with diamonds; and the wild river, with its
black-topped, loitering pools; and the shaggy mists that lie in the
nights of early autumn like unravelled clouds, lost upon the meadow. You
love the hills, climbing green and grand to the skies, or stretching
away in distance their soft, blue, smoky caps, like the sweet,
half-faded memories of the years behind you. You love those oaks,
tossing up their broad arms into clear heaven with a spirit and a
strength that kindles your dawning pride and purposes, and that makes
you yearn, as your forehead mantles with fresh blood, for a kindred
spirit and a kindred strength. Above all you love--though you do not
know it now--the BREADTH of a country life. In the fields of
God's planting there is ROOM. No walls of brick and mortar
cramp one; no factitious distinctions mould your habit.
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