Once outside she said
in her gentle way:--"I would not get arguing with Mr. Winthrop if I were
you. He is a good deal older, and, pardon me, a good deal wiser; and
while he never seems to lose his own temper he very easily makes others
lose theirs."
"I will try not to," I said, very humbly, for now that my temper had
calmed I realized that I had been very foolish in saying what I did. I
went sorrowfully to my room, and, taking my knitting work, I sat down in
my easy chair where I could watch them working busily at the vegetables.
But there came so many desolate, homesick fancies to keep me company,
that pretty soon my eyes were so blinded with tears I could scarcely see
the enlivening prospect under my windows. Ashamed of my weakness I set
myself resolutely to thinking of Daniel Blake and his heavy, sad life; of
the poor barefoot children, and tired mothers on the Mill Road; and of
all the sadder hearts than mine should be, until the sultry, still air,
and monotonous click of the knitting needles overcame my heartaches, and
I went fast asleep. A knock at the door startled me. Hastily opening it,
I met Esmerelda, who had come to announce the arrival of her neighbors.
"There's a good lot of them coming, and they look as frightened, and
foolish as so many dogs that's been caught sheep killing. I declare I
pity them."
"Where is Mr. Winthrop?" I gasped.
"Oh, you may be certain he's not far off; it's just death to him having
so many of them poor wretches coming around his place.
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