But here, after the first ten days of almost prostrate relaxation, he
found himself waking even before the dawn, and lying awake in his bed,
waiting almost impatiently for the light to come so that he could rise
to another day. He learned all the sounds of the late night and early
morning, and how they had different voices in the dark; the faint
whisper of the maple-branches, the occasional stir and muffled chirp of
a bird, the hushed, secret murmur of the little brook which ran between
his garden and the Crittenden yard, and the distant, deeper note of the
Necronsett River as it rolled down the Ashley valley to The Notch. He
could almost tell, without opening his eyes, when the sky grew light
over the Eagle Rocks, by the way the night voices lifted, and carried
their sweet, muted notes up to a clearer, brighter singing.
When that change in the night-voices came, he sat up in bed, turning
his face from the window, for he did not want any mere partial glimpse
for his first contact with the day, and got into his clothes, moving
cautiously not to waken Vincent, who always sat up till all hours and
slept till ten. Down the stairs in his stocking-feet, his shoes in his
hand; a pause in the living-room to thread and fasten shoe-laces; and
then, his silly old heart beating fast, his hand on the door-knob.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116