The old negro had
disturbed his dream, which had been of Molly in her red stockings, with
the red ribbon binding her curls. Then he thought of Spot, the aged
hound--"That dog must have lived to be seventeen years old," he said
aloud in the effort to smother the sharp pang at his heart, "I remember
how fond old Reuben was of him even as a puppy. He would never let him
run hares with anybody except himself." It was seventeen years ago that
Spot was a puppy and he a boy--and now the one was dust with old Reuben,
and the other had settled down so effectually that he was going to marry
Judy in a fortnight. At least Judy was a good woman--nobody had ever
said a word against her--and she would make him a good wife. That, after
all, was what a farmer must think of--a good, saving wife, without any
foolishness about her, who would be thrifty and lend a hand at his work
when he needed it. All the rest was nonsense when once a man married.
Dreams were all very well in their way, but realities and not dreams,
after all, were things he must live with. Looking ahead he saw his
future stretching smooth and firm, like the flat white turnpike that
dragged its solid length into the distance.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358