Barlow,
senior--play on the "broad window seat" that looks off towards the sea.
CHAPTER X.
A LETTER FROM THE FISHERMAN.
The fisherman had gone back to Providence. Rebecca, herself, returning
from the Post Office at West Wallen, brought me a letter distinguished by
its peculiar dashing chirography. As she handed it to me, the girl, whose
glance had been downcast of late, gave me a clear, straightforward,
unembarrassed look.
"Do you like him, teacher?" she said.
"Oh, I tolerate him, my dear," I answered. "We're not expected to
entertain a particular liking or dislike for everybody we know. There are
a great many people we must just simply tolerate."
Rebecca's eyes fell again. "He won't harm you, teacher," she said; "for
you was used to folks. Sometime you might remember--I wasn't used to
folks."
Occupied with my own thoughts, I passed lightly over the girl's slow,
trembling speech. She turned away, and I bent to the complacent perusal
of my letter. In my then composed and exalted frame of mind its contents
were not calculated to create in me either great emotion or surprise. And
not because the mere fact of the fisherman's absence had suddenly
rendered him more desirable in my eyes, but as the result of a recent
determination on my part to take an utterly worldly and practical view of
life, I resolved to give this letter the most careful and serious
consideration.
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