"Be still, my babies!" she whispered; and then, picking up the bundle from the crushed marigolds, and never turning her head to look up at the stately old house which she was leaving, she fled down the walk between the currant and gooseberry bushes, the thyme, the sage, and summer savoury beds,—through a narrow wicket gate halfhidden in larkspur and honeysuckle,—along the footpath through the rank and dripping burdocks back of the barn, where she felt a little qualm of homesickness at the sound of her dear horses breathing deeply and contentedly in the stalls,—and thence, letting down one of the bars and crawling through with her burdens, out into the graying, hillocky open of the cowpasture.
Barbara Ladd
Charles G.D. Roberts • Papersense
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