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Ewell, Martha Lewis Beckwith, 1841-1902

"The Harvest of Years"

I thought if I could touch Miss North in
the right spot, I might fill her mind, for a few brief hours at least,
with something beside her gossip. If this could be done every day in the
week, she would lose sight of it altogether, and like a tree engrafted
with better fruit, on these new thought-branches beautiful wisdom
apples might grow and ripen. If she comes again I will find something
as new to her, I hope, as I have found to-day."
"What a wonderful compound you are, Clara," I said, "and what perfect
symmetry nature has given to you, while I am your antipodes."
"What's that you are calling yourself?" said Aunt Hildy.
"Oh, something just different from all that is good and true enough to
belong to Clara!"
"'Pears to me you're gettin' some dretful big word now-a-days; when you
want me to understand you, talk plain English."
Hal, who had entered that moment, laughed heartily. "So I say, Aunt
Hildy. Our Emily is going to be a blue-stocking, I fear. Housework will
suffer before long, for housework and book cannot go together."
"No more than ploughs and plaster," I added.
"Not a bit more, sister mine," and he passed his arm around my
waist,--he often did this now-a-days,--and whispered, "give me a chance
to say something to you."
I nodded an assent, and he passed on through the room, whistling to
himself "Bonny Doon." I embraced the first opportunity to follow him,
and found him alone in his studio. He seated himself beside me, took one
hand in his and passed an arm around me.


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