Yesterday, in driving
home from Pine Ridge with Sylvia, we noticed that even the wood edges had
the appearance of being scorched by fire, and many of the old orchards
where we go in May for apple blossoms are wrecks meshed in the
treacherous slimy webs.
Martin's methods are regular and very simple, but he goes about his task
each day as if the matter was a marvel of military strategy. First he
puts a book ostentatiously in one pocket and a flask of alcohol in the
other. Next he takes his torch, consisting of a piece of sponge wired to
an old rake handle, which he keeps on the back stoop, and makes sure that
it is tight and secure, finally searching me out to say that in case he
meets Miss Lavinia, have I any message for her.
Why he does not keep his outfit up at Martha's I do not know; perhaps
because of Timothy's keen tongue.
Miss Lavinia, after her morning housekeeping is over, takes her work bag
to the narrow cottage porch and apparently gives herself up to the task
of making pin-cushions for Sylvia or embroidering initials on napery.
Suddenly she will get up, say that her feet are falling asleep and that
she needs a walk to restore her circulation. Will Sylvia go with her?
Sylvia, after pretending to consider, thinks not, making some excuse of
its being too warm or that she expects Horace that day. Presently two
prim people walking in opposite directions meet and, taking the same
path, may be seen any morning along the less frequented roads and orchard
paths, sometimes repairing the torch that has a constant tendency to lose
its head, sometimes watching the destruction by fire of an unusually
wicked worm city, and frequently with their heads stuck into some
suspicious bush, where they appear to be watching invisible things with
breathless interest.
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