"Yes, friends may be kind, and vales may be green,
And brooks, may sparkle along between;
But it is not friendship's kindest look,
Nor loveliest vale, nor clearest brook,
That can tell the tale which is written for me
On each old face and well known tree."
It was a happy day for both Agnes Wortley and Marian Arundel when they again entered
Devonshire. Agnes seemed to feel her four weeks as serious an absence as Marian did her
four years, and was even more rapturous in her exclamations at each object that showed
her she was near home.
They walked up the last and steepest hill, or rather bounded along the well known side
path, catching at the long trailing wreaths of the dogrose, peeping over the gates which
broke the high hedge, where Marian, as she saw the moors, could only relieve her heart
by pronouncing to herself those words of Manzoni's Lucia, "_Vedo i miei monti._" ("I
see my own mountains.") She beheld the woods and the chimneys of the Manor House,
but she shrank from looking at it, and gazed, as if she feared it was but a moment's vision,
at the rough cottages, the smoke curling among the trees, the red limestone quarry, and
the hills far away in the summer garb of golden furze. It was home, her heart was full,
and Agnes respected her silence.
Down the hill, along the well-known paling, past the cottages, the dear old faces smiling
welcome; the Church, always the same, the green rail of the Vicarage garden, the paint
was the only thing new; the porch, with roses hanging thicker over it than ever; Ranger,
David Chapple, Jane, the housemaid, all in ecstasy in their different ways.
That first evening was spent in visiting every nook of the garden with Agnes, and hearing
the history of each little innovation; then, after a slight interval of sleepiness, came those
fond, cordial "good nights," which dwell no where but at home.
She woke to the reality of a Fern Torr Sunday, not to shake off with disappointment and
wearinesss, the dream of such a day. There was the pinkthorne, dressed in all its garlands,
before her window, the dew lying heavy and silvery on the grass; the cart-horses enjoying
their holiday in the meadow, the mass of blossom in the orchard, the sky above, all
blueness, the air full of a delicious quietness, as if the sunshine itself was repose, Marian
leant out at her window, and wondered if it was possible she should have been so long
away, so familiar, so natural did it all seem.
