he leaves of the thick
oaks, it wantoned in the wind, as the long draperies of moss swung and
moved gently to and fro; but the very sunshine is cold where the ice
meets it; I could get no comfort. The thoughts that had so troubled me
the evening after my long talk with Preston were always present with
me; they went out and came in with me; I slept with them, and they met
me when I woke. The sight of the servants was wearying. I shunned
Darry and the stables. I had no heart for my pony. I would have liked
to get away from Magnolia. Yet, be I where I might, it would not alter
my father's position towards these seven hundred people. And towards
how many more? There were his estates in Virginia.

One of the first things I did, as soon as I could command my fingers
to do it, was to write to him. Not a remonstrance. I knew better than
to touch that. All I ventured, was to implore that the people who
desired it might be allowed to hold prayer-meetings whenever they
liked, and Mr. Edwards be forbidden to interfere. Also I complained
that the inside of the cabins were not comfortable; that they were
bare and empty. I pleaded for a little bettering of them. It was not a
long letter that I wrote. My sorrow I could not tell, and my love and
my longing were equally beyond the region of words. I fancy it would
have been thought by Miss Pinshon a very cold little epistle, but Miss
Pinshon did not see it. I wrote it with weak trembling fingers, and
closed it and sealed it and sent it myself. Then I sank into a
helpless, careless, listless state of body and mind, which was very
bad for me; and there was no physician who could minister to me. I
went wandering about, mostly out of doors, alone with myself and my
sorrow. When I seemed a little stronger than usual, Miss Pinshon tried
the multiplication table; and I tried, but the spring of my mind was
for the time broken. All such trials came to an end in such weakness
and weariness, that my governess herself was fain to take the book
from my hands and send me out into the sunshine again.

It was Darry at last who found me one day, and, distressed at my
looks, begged that I would let him bring up my pony. He was so earnest
that I yielded. I got leave, and went to ride. Darry saddled another
horse for himself and went with me. That first ride did not help me
much; but the second time a little tide of life began to steal into my
veins. Darry encouraged and instructed me; and when we came can