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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
32
The
light
had
faded
as
we
watched.
Mrs.
Todd
had
mounted
a
gray
rock,
and
stood
there
grand
and
architectural,
like
a
caryatide.
Presently
she
stepped
down,
and
we
continued
our
way
homeward.
“You
an'
me,
we'll
take
a
bo't
an'
go
out
some
day
and
see
mother,”
she
promised
me.
“'Twould
please
her
very
much,
an'
there's
one
or
two
sca'ce
herbs
grows
better
on
the
island
than
anywhere
else.
I
ain't
seen
their
like
nowheres
here
on
the
main.”
“Now
I'm
goin'
right
down
to
get
us
each
a
mug
o'
my
beer,”
she
announced
as
we
entered
the
house,
“an'
I
believe
I'll
sneak
in
a
little
mite
o'
camomile.
Goin'
to
the
funeral
an'
all,
I
feel
to
have
had
a
very
wearin'
afternoon.”
I
heard
her
going
down
into
the
cool
little
cellar,
and
then
there
was
considerable
delay.
When
she
returned,
mug
in
hand,
I
noticed
the
taste
of
camomile,
in
spite
of
my
protest;
but
its
flavor
was
disguised
by
some
other
herb
that
I
did
not
know,
and
she
stood
over
me
until
I
drank
it
all
and
said
that
I
liked
it.
“I
don't
give
that
to
everybody,”
said
Mrs.
Todd
kindly;
and
I
felt
for
a
moment
as
if
it
were
part
of
a
spell
and
incantation,
and
as
if
my
enchantress
would
now
begin
to
look
like
the
cobweb
shapes
of
the
arctic
town.
Nothing
happened
but
a
quiet
evening
and
some
delightful
plans
that
we
made
about
going
to
Green
Island,
and
on
the
morrow
there
was
the
clear
sunshine
and
blue
sky
of
another
day.
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