sort of man in some ways.
‘Well, when Leslie was twelve years old the first dreadful thing happened. She worshipped little Kenneth – he was four years younger than her, and he
was
a dear little chap. And he was killed one day – fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into the barn, and the wheel went right over his little body and crushed the life out of it. And mind you, Anne, Leslie saw it. She was looking down from the loft. She gave one screech – the hired man said he never heard such a sound in all his life – he said it would ring in his ears till Gabriel’s trump drove it out. But she never screeched or cried again about it. She jumped from the loft on to the load and from the load to the floor, and caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body, Anne – they had to tear it from her before she would let it go. They sent for me – I can’t talk of it.’
Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few minutes.
‘Well,’ she resumed, ‘it was all over – they buried little Kenneth in that graveyard over the harbour, and after a while Leslie went back to her school and her studies. She never mentioned Kenneth’s name – I’ve never heard it cross her lips from that day to this. I reckon that old hurt still aches and burns at times; but she was only a child and time is real kind to children, Anne, dearie. After a while she began to laugh again – she had the prettiest laugh. You don’t often hear it now.’
‘I heard it once the other night,’ said Anne. ‘It is a beautiful laugh.’
‘Frank West began to go down after Kenneth’s death. He wasn’t strong and it was a shock to him, because he was real fond of the child, though, as I’ve said, Leslie was his favourite. He got mopy and melancholy, and couldn’t or wouldn’t work. And one day, when Leslie was fourteen years of age, he hanged himself – and in the parlour, too, mind you, Anne, right in the middle of the parlour from the lamp-hook in the ceiling. Wasn’t that like a man? It was the anniversary of his wedding day, too. Nice, tasty time to pick for it, wasn’t it? And, of course, that poor Leslie had to be the one to find him. She went into the parlour that morning, singing, with some fresh flowers for the vases, and there she saw her father hanging from the ceiling, his face as black as a coal. It was something awful, believe
me
!’
‘Oh, how horrible!’ said Anne, shuddering. ‘The poor, poor child!’
‘Leslie didn’t cry at her father’s funeral any more than she had cried at Kenneth’s. Rose whooped and howled for two, however, and Leslie had all she could do trying to calm and comfort her mother. I was disgusted with Rose and so was everyone else, but Leslie never got out of patience. She loved her mother. Leslie is clannish – her own could never do wrong in her eyes. Well, they buried Frank West beside Kenneth, and Rose put up a great big monument to him. It was bigger than his character, believe
me
! Anyhow, it was bigger than Rose could afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than its value. But not long after Leslie’s old Grandmother West died and she left Leslie a little money – enough to give her a year at Queen’s Academy. Leslie had made up her mind to pass for a teacher if she could, and then earn enough to put herself through Redmond College. That had been her father’s pet scheme – he wanted her to have what he had lost. Leslie was full of ambition and her head was chock full of brains. She went to Queen’s, and she took two years’ work in one year and got her First; and when she came home she got the Glen school. She was so happy and hopeful and full of life and eagerness. When I think of what she was then and what she is now, I say – drat the men!’
Miss Cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously as if, Nero-like, she was severing the neck of mankind by the stroke.
‘Dick Moore came into her life that summer. His
‘Well, when Leslie was twelve years old the first dreadful thing happened. She worshipped little Kenneth – he was four years younger than her, and he
was
a dear little chap. And he was killed one day – fell off a big load of hay just as it was going into the barn, and the wheel went right over his little body and crushed the life out of it. And mind you, Anne, Leslie saw it. She was looking down from the loft. She gave one screech – the hired man said he never heard such a sound in all his life – he said it would ring in his ears till Gabriel’s trump drove it out. But she never screeched or cried again about it. She jumped from the loft on to the load and from the load to the floor, and caught up the little bleeding, warm, dead body, Anne – they had to tear it from her before she would let it go. They sent for me – I can’t talk of it.’
Miss Cornelia wiped the tears from her kindly brown eyes and sewed in bitter silence for a few minutes.
‘Well,’ she resumed, ‘it was all over – they buried little Kenneth in that graveyard over the harbour, and after a while Leslie went back to her school and her studies. She never mentioned Kenneth’s name – I’ve never heard it cross her lips from that day to this. I reckon that old hurt still aches and burns at times; but she was only a child and time is real kind to children, Anne, dearie. After a while she began to laugh again – she had the prettiest laugh. You don’t often hear it now.’
‘I heard it once the other night,’ said Anne. ‘It is a beautiful laugh.’
‘Frank West began to go down after Kenneth’s death. He wasn’t strong and it was a shock to him, because he was real fond of the child, though, as I’ve said, Leslie was his favourite. He got mopy and melancholy, and couldn’t or wouldn’t work. And one day, when Leslie was fourteen years of age, he hanged himself – and in the parlour, too, mind you, Anne, right in the middle of the parlour from the lamp-hook in the ceiling. Wasn’t that like a man? It was the anniversary of his wedding day, too. Nice, tasty time to pick for it, wasn’t it? And, of course, that poor Leslie had to be the one to find him. She went into the parlour that morning, singing, with some fresh flowers for the vases, and there she saw her father hanging from the ceiling, his face as black as a coal. It was something awful, believe
me
!’
‘Oh, how horrible!’ said Anne, shuddering. ‘The poor, poor child!’
‘Leslie didn’t cry at her father’s funeral any more than she had cried at Kenneth’s. Rose whooped and howled for two, however, and Leslie had all she could do trying to calm and comfort her mother. I was disgusted with Rose and so was everyone else, but Leslie never got out of patience. She loved her mother. Leslie is clannish – her own could never do wrong in her eyes. Well, they buried Frank West beside Kenneth, and Rose put up a great big monument to him. It was bigger than his character, believe
me
! Anyhow, it was bigger than Rose could afford, for the farm was mortgaged for more than its value. But not long after Leslie’s old Grandmother West died and she left Leslie a little money – enough to give her a year at Queen’s Academy. Leslie had made up her mind to pass for a teacher if she could, and then earn enough to put herself through Redmond College. That had been her father’s pet scheme – he wanted her to have what he had lost. Leslie was full of ambition and her head was chock full of brains. She went to Queen’s, and she took two years’ work in one year and got her First; and when she came home she got the Glen school. She was so happy and hopeful and full of life and eagerness. When I think of what she was then and what she is now, I say – drat the men!’
Miss Cornelia snipped her thread off as viciously as if, Nero-like, she was severing the neck of mankind by the stroke.
‘Dick Moore came into her life that summer. His
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