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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
146
When
I
went
in
again
the
little
house
had
suddenly
grown
lonely,
and
my
room
looked
empty
as
it
had
the
day
I
came.
I
and
all
my
belongings
had
died
out
of
it,
and
I
knew
how
it
would
seem
when
Mrs.
Todd
came
back
and
found
her
lodger
gone.
So
we
die
before
our
own
eyes;
so
we
see
some
chapters
of
our
lives
come
to
their
natural
end.
I
found
the
little
packages
on
the
kitchen
table.
There
was
a
quaint
West
Indian
basket
which
I
knew
its
owner
had
valued,
and
which
I
had
once
admired;
there
was
an
affecting
provision
laid
beside
it
for
my
seafaring
supper,
with
a
neatly
tied
bunch
of
southernwood
and
a
twig
of
bay,
and
a
little
old
leather
box
which
held
the
coral
pin
that
Nathan
Todd
brought
home
to
give
to
poor
Joanna.
There
was
still
an
hour
to
wait,
and
I
went
up
the
hill
just
above
the
schoolhouse
and
sat
there
thinking
of
things,
and
looking
off
to
sea,
and
watching
for
the
boat
to
come
in
sight.
I
could
see
Green
Island,
small
and
darkly
wooded
at
that
distance;
below
me
were
the
houses
of
the
village
with
their
apple-trees
and
bits
of
garden
ground.
Presently,
as
I
looked
at
the
pastures
beyond,
I
caught
a
last
glimpse
of
Mrs.
Todd
herself,
walking
slowly
in
the
footpath
that
led
along,
following
the
shore
toward
the
Port.
At
such
a
distance
one
can
feel
the
large,
positive
qualities
that
control
a
character.
Close
at
hand,
Mrs.
Todd
seemed
able
and
warm-hearted
and
quite
absorbed
in
her
bustling
industries,
but
her
distant
figure
looked
mateless
and
appealing,
with
something
about
it
that
was
strangely
self-possessed
and
mysterious.
Now
and
then
she
stooped
to
pick
something,--it
might
have
been
her
favorite
pennyroyal,--and
at
last
I
lost
sight
of
her
as
she
slowly
crossed
an
open
space
on
one
of
the
higher
points
of
land,
and
disappeared
again
behind
a
dark
clump
of
juniper
and
the
pointed
firs.
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