rt, so
I will write and see what can be done."
The dear old lady, with her prompt businesslike propensities, sat down
and wrote there and then. I wrote also--pleaded with my mother against her
decree, begged her to leave me at Caddagat, and assured her I could never
succeed at M'Swat's.
I did not sleep that night, so arose betimes to await the first
traveller, whom I asked to post the letters.
We got an answer to them sooner than we expected--at least grannie did.
Mother did not deign to write to me, but in her letter to grannie I was
described as an abominably selfish creature, who would not consider her
little brothers and sisters. I would never be any good; all I thought of
was idleness and ease. Most decidedly I could not get out of going to
M'Swat's, as mother had given her word.
"I am sorry for you," said grannie, "but it cannot be helped. You can
stay there for two or three years, and then I can have you here again."
I was inconsolable, and would not listen to reason. Ah! that uncle
Jay-Jay had been at home to rescue me from this. Then aunt Helen brought
her arguments to bear upon me, and persuaded me to think it was necessary
for the benefit of my little brothers and sisters that I should take up
this burden, which I knew would be too much for me.
It was a great wrench to be torn away from Caddagat--from refinement and
comfort--from home! As the days till my departure melted away, how I
wished that it were possible to set one's weight against the grim wheel
of time and turn it back! Nights I did not sleep, but drenched my pillow
with tears. Ah, it was hard to leave grannie and aunt Helen, whom I
worshipped, and turn my back on Caddagat!
I suppose it is only a fancy born of the wild deep love I bear it, but to
me the flowers seem to smell more sweetly there; and the shadows, how
they creep and curl! oh, so softly and caressingly around the quaint old
place, as the great sun sets amid the blue peaks; and the never-ceasing
rush of the crystal fern-banked stream--I see and hear it now, and the
sinking sun as it turns to a sheet of flame the mirror hanging in the
backyard in the laundry veranda, before which the station hands were wont
to comb and wash themselves. Oh, the memories that crowd upon me!
Methinks I can smell the roses that clamber up the veranda posts and peep
over the garden gate. As I write my eyes grow misty, so that I cannot see
the paper.
The day for my departure arrived--hot, 110 d
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