A year later the East Rodney shore looked as green as ever, and the
untouched wall of firs and pines faithfully echoed the steamer's
whistle. In the twelve months just past Mr. Aldis had worked wonders
upon his long-neglected estate, and now was comfortably at
housekeeping on the Sunday Cove headland. Nancy could see the chimneys
and a gable of the fine establishment from her own little north
window, and the sheep still fed undisturbed on the slopes that lay
between. More than this, there were two other new houses, to be
occupied by Tom's friends, within the distance of a mile or two. It
would be difficult to give any idea of the excitement and interest of
East Rodney, or the fine effect and impulse to the local market. Tom's
wife and children were most affectionately befriended by their
neighbors the Gales, and with their coming in midsummer many changes
for the better took place in Nancy's life, and made it bright. She
lost no time in starting a class, where the two eldest for the first
time found study a pleasure, while little Tom was promptly and
tenderly taught his best bow, and made to mind his steps with such
interest and satisfaction that he who had once roared aloud in public
at the infant dancing-class, now knew both confidence and ambition.
There was already a well-worn little footpath between the old Gale
house and Sunday Cove; it wound in and out among the ledges and
thickets, and over the short sheep-turf of the knolls; and there was a
scent of sweet-brier here, and of raspberries there, and of the salt
water and the pines, and the juniper and bayberry, all the way.
Nancy herself had followed that path in a carrying-chair, and joy was
in her heart at every step. She blessed Tom over and over again, as he
walked, broad-shouldered and strong, between the forward handles, and
turned his head now and then to see if she liked the journey. For many
reasons, she was much better now that she could get out into the sun.
The bedroom with the north window was apt to be tenantless, and
where-ever Nancy went she made other people wiser and happier, and
more interested in life.
On the day when she went in state to visit the new house, with her two
sober carriers, and a gay little retinue of young people frisking
alongside, she felt happy enough by the way; but when she got to the
house itself, and had been carried quite round it, and was at last set
down in the wide hall to look about, she gave her eyes a splendid
liberty of enjoyment. Mrs. Aldis disappeared for a moment to give
directions in her guest's behalf, and the host and Nancy were left
alone together.
"No, I don't feel a bit tired," said the guest, looking pale and
radiant. "I feel as if I didn't know how to be grateful enough. I have
everything in the world to make me happy. What does make you and your
dear family do so much?"
"It means a great deal to have friends, doesn't it?" answered Tom in a
tone that thanked her warmly. "I often wish"--
He could not finish his sentence, for he was thinking of Nancy's long
years, and the bond of friendship that absence and even forgetfulness
had failed to break; of the curious insistence of fate which made him
responsible for something in the life of Nancy and brought him back to
her neighborhood. It was a moment of deep thought; he even forgot
Nancy herself. He heard the water plashing on the shore below, and
felt the cool sea wind that blew in at the door.
Nancy reached out her bent and twisted hand and began to speak; then
she hesitated, and glanced at her hand again, and looked straight at
him with shining eyes.
"There never has been a day when I haven't thought of you," she said.