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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
57
Mrs.
Blackett,
the
dear
old
lady,
opened
the
door
of
her
bedroom
while
Mrs.
Todd
was
tying
up
the
herb
bag,
and
William
had
gone
down
to
get
the
boat
ready
and
to
blow
the
horn
for
Johnny
Bowden,
who
had
joined
a
roving
boat
party
who
were
off
the
shore
lobstering.
I
went
to
the
door
of
the
bedroom,
and
thought
how
pleasant
it
looked,
with
its
pink-and-white
patchwork
quilt
and
the
brown
unpainted
paneling
of
its
woodwork.
“Come
right
in,
dear,”
she
said.
“I
want
you
to
set
down
in
my
old
quilted
rockin'-chair
there
by
the
window;
you'll
say
it's
the
prettiest
view
in
the
house.
I
set
there
a
good
deal
to
rest
me
and
when
I
want
to
read.”
There
was
a
worn
red
Bible
on
the
lightstand,
and
Mrs.
Blackett's
heavy
silver-bowed
glasses;
her
thimble
was
on
the
narrow
window-ledge,
and
folded
carefully
on
the
table
was
a
thick
striped-cotton
shirt
that
she
was
making
for
her
son.
Those
dear
old
fingers
and
their
loving
stitches,
that
heart
which
had
made
the
most
of
everything
that
needed
love!
Here
was
the
real
home,
the
heart
of
the
old
house
on
Green
Island!
I
sat
in
the
rocking-chair,
and
felt
that
it
was
a
place
of
peace,
the
little
brown
bedroom,
and
the
quiet
outlook
upon
field
and
sea
and
sky.
I
looked
up,
and
we
understood
each
other
without
speaking.
“I
shall
like
to
think
o'
your
settin'
here
to-day,”
said
Mrs.
Blackett.
“I
want
you
to
come
again.
It
has
been
so
pleasant
for
William.”
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