"
[Illustration: His Mother]
Poor father was fairly in a rage at the girl's idea of what he deems a
sacred calling, and it was not until Richard had kissed him from the end
of his nose up over his short thick gray hair, and down again to the
tickle place in his neck, that he calmed down. Unless my instinct fails
me, he will have his social experience considerably widened during the
coming season, even if his trustful nature is not strengthened.
Father had made three calls, and we had eaten our luncheon by the
wayside, unhooking the horses, and baiting them by a low bridge rail that
sloped into the bushes, where they could eat and drink at leisure, before
we reached Pine Ridge. Once there, he dropped me at the Bradford farm,
while he drove westward, along the Ridge, to a consultation with the
local doctor over a complicated broken leg that would not knit.
As I closed the neat white picket gate behind me, and walked slowly
toward the porch, a blaze of yellow on the south side of the red brick
house drew my attention. It was the Forsythia, the great bush of "yellow
bells," of which Horace Bradford had spoken as blooming in advance of any
in the neighbourhood, and for a moment I felt as if I were walking into
the pages of a story-book.
I wielded the heavy brass knocker on the half-door, with diamond-paned
glass top, and paused to look off to where the flower and fruit garden
sloped south and west.
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