The farm lay in a hollow between two hills, separated
from the road by a thick wood, and the chimneys of the lonely old
house looked in vain for a neighbor-smoke when they began to grow
warm of a morning.
Beyond the barn and under the northern hill there was a log tenant-
house, in which dwelt a negro couple, who, in the course of years
had become fixtures on the place and almost partners in it. Harry,
the man, was the medium by which Samuel Flint kept up his necessary
intercourse with the world beyond the valley; he took the horses to
the blacksmith, the grain to the mill, the turkeys to market, and
through his hands passed all the incomings and outgoings of the
farm, except the annual interest on the mortgage. Sally, his wife,
took care of the household, which, indeed, was a light and
comfortable task, since the table was well supplied for her own
sake, and there was no sharp eye to criticise her sweeping,
dusting, and bed-making. The place had a forlorn, tumble-down
aspect, quite in keeping with its lonely situation; but perhaps
this very circumstance flattered the mood of its silent, melancholy
owner and his unhappy son.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154