She seemed to grow a little stronger as the days passed. She took her
medicines regularly and without protest; but deep down in her heart she
felt that she would never get better, and her only desire, that had been
shaping itself ever since Robert had told her of her father's condition,
was to be strong enough, to go home to Lowwood, just to see her parents,
her brothers and sisters, once more; then she could die in peace. If
only she could do that, she would not care what happened. Nothing else
mattered; but she must get home. Nothing would prevent her from doing
that.
It was the instinct of the wounded animal, dragging itself home to
die--home to its home in the kindly earth, away from contact with other
things--just to be alone, to nurse its suffering and its misery, till
the last shred of strength had gone, and the limbs stiffened out, while
the glazing eyes looked forward as the pain increased, across the
barriers of other worlds to a land of plenty--a land of green shrubs,
and sweet waters bubbling from scented hillsides, overhung with blue
skies which never brewed storms. A land of bud and bloom and blossom,
scented and sweet, with every desirable weed and tasty herb--a land of
life full and beautiful, of warm suns, calling up dreams from a
blossoming mist of bluebells, creating the freshness and the happiness
of youthfulness in every living thing.
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