“Not now—it’s too late,” he answered quietly. “You will come round our way, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
We were eating bread and milk at the farm, and the father was talking with vague sadness and reminiscence, lingering over the thought of their departure from the old house. He was a pure romanticist, forever seeking the colour of the past in the present’s monotony. He seemed settling down to an easy contented middle-age, when the unrest on the farm and development of his children quickened him with fresh activity. He read books on the land question, and modern novels. In the end he became an advanced radical, almost a socialist. Occasionally his letters appeared in the newspapers. He had taken a new hold on life.
Over supper he became enthusiastic about Canada, and to watch him, his ruddy face lighted up, his burly form straight and nerved with excitement, was to admire him; to hear him, his words of thoughtful common-sense all warm with a young man’s hopes, was to love him. At forty-six he was more spontaneous and enthusiastic than George, and far more happy and hopeful.
Emily would not agree to go away with them—what should she do in Canada, she said—and she did not want the little ones “to be drudges on a farm—in the end to be nothing but cattle.”
“Nay,” said her father gently, “Mollie shall learn the dairying, and David will just be right to take to the place when I give up. It’ll perhaps be a bit rough and hard at first, but when we’ve got over it
