LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
giver of my precious book, and quite ashamed of the rebellious mood of the morning, I went back to my work with a light and happy heart. Something pleasant had happened to relieve the monotony of toil and change the current of my thought. Work was easy now, and soon those clothes were fluttering white upon the hillside. They were not slighted in the least, either; for I’ve learned of Emerson, corroborated by experience, that to feel “relieved and gay, one’s work must be well done, otherwise it shall give one no peace; is a deliverance which does not deliver.”
Dinner over, the work “done up,” and every trace of the late unpleasantness removed, Bridget McCarty vanished from mortal view; Mrs. Graham emerged from seclusion, freshly if not modishly gowned, seated herself in a favorite rocker by a favorite window, drew another chair near upon which was piled that blessed mail, then glanced at the clock. It was three P. M.,—two whole hours before time to begin supper.
During those two hours I was about as near perfect content and happiness as I ever expect to be this side the gates of pearl. Absorbed in the delightful contents of six plump letters, the fascinations of a new book, and a multitude of papers and magazines, I was startled when the clock with cruel distinctness struck five. The sound fell upon my ear like the death-knell of Duncan.
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