or a walk. A walk with Miss Pinshon alone, for my aunt never joined
us. Indeed, this winter my aunt was not unfrequently away from
Magnolia altogether; finding Baytown more diverting. It made a little
difference to me; for when she was not at home, the whole day,
morning, afternoon and evening, meal times and all times, seemed under
a leaden grey sky. Miss Pinshon discussed natural history to me when
we were walking--not the thing, but the science; she asked me
questions in geography when we were eating breakfast, and talked over
some puzzle in arithmetic when we were at dinner. I think it was
refreshing to her; she liked it; but to me, the sky closed over me in
lead colour, one unbroken vault, as I said, when my aunt was away.
With her at home, all this could not be; and any changes of colour
were refreshing.

All this was not very good for me. My rides with Darry would have been
a great help; but now I only got a chance at them now and then. I grew
spiritless and weary. Sundays I would have begged to be allowed to
stay at home all day and rest; but I knew if I pleaded fatigue my
evenings with the people in the kitchen would be immediately cut off;
not my drives to church. Miss Pinshon always drove the six miles to
Bolingbroke every Sunday morning, and took me with her. Oh how long
the miles were! how weary I was, with my back aching and trying to
find a comfortable corner in the carriage; how I wanted to lie down on
the soft cushions in the pew and go to sleep during the service. And
when the miles home were finished, it seemed to me that so was I. Then
I used to pray to have strength in the evening to read with the
people. And I always had it; or at least I always did it. I never
failed; though the rest of the Sunday hours were often spent on the
bed. But, indeed, that Sunday evening reading was the one thing that
saved my life from growing, or settling, into a petrifaction. Those
hours gave me cheer, and some spirit to begin again on Monday morning.

However, I was not thriving. I know I was losing colour, and sinking
in strength, day by day; yet very gradually; so that my governess
never noticed it. My aunt sometimes, on her return from an absence
that had been longer than common, looked at me uneasily.

"Miss Pinshon, what ails that child?" she would ask.

My governess said, "Nothing." Miss Pinshon was the most immovable
person, I think, I have ever known. At least, so far as one could
judge from the outside.