Between Snow and Fire — page 99: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

—. — — CBU TT nice, bright children of fifteen and thirteen, respectively, and there were also two boys—then away at a boarding school - inGrahamstown. If Eanswyth ever had reason tocomplain | of the dulness or loneliness of her life on the farm, here it was quite the reverse. Not only was the house so small that four persons were sufficient to crowd it, but somebody or other, situated like themselves, was always dropping in, ; sitting half the day chatting, or gossiping about the pro- gress of the war and the many rumours and reports which were flying around. In fact, there was seldom a respite from the “ strife of tongues,’’ for no sooner had one batch of visitors departed than another would arrive, always in the most informal manner. Now, of all this excess of sociability, Eanswyth was becoming a trifle weary. To begin with, she could obtain little orno privacy. Ac- customed to full measure of it in her daily life, she sorely missed it now. She even began to realize that what she had taken as a matter of course—-what, indeed, some of her neighbours had half commiserated her for—was a luxury, and, like other articles falling under that category, a thing to be dispensed with now that they were living, so to say, in a State of siege. She was fond of the two girls, as we have said ; yet there were times when she would have preferred their room to their company—would have preferred a long, solitary walk. She was fond of her friend and entertainer; yet that cheery person’s voluble tongue was apt to be sometimes a trifle oppressive. She liked her neighbours and they liked her ; yet the constant and generally harmless gossip of the other set- tlers’ wives and daughters, who were ever visiting or being visited by them, regarding work, native servants, babies, en- gagements, the war, and so forth, would strike her as bor- ing and wearisome to the last degree. There were times when she would have given much to be alone—absolutely and entirely alone—and think. For she had enough to think about now, enough to oc- cupy every moment of her thoughts, day and night. But was it good that it should be so—was it good ? “Tam a wicked woman!” she would say to herself, half bitterly, half sadly, but never regretfully—‘a fearfully wicked woman. That is why I feel so restless, so discon- tented.” Never regretfully? No; for the sudden rush of the : = AM THY LOVE.” a “al 5 : : _ r S : Gomilcbooks.com