Robin, beside her, sat in cosy contentment--mainly because of her
precious letter. She drew a mental picture of her Jimmie, sailing away.
Then her thoughts came back to the gray hills and she wished her father
might see them at that moment, so as to paint them. He would love
Wassumsic, she knew--but, oh, he would hate the Mills. He would think,
as she did, that it was too bad they had built the Mill cottages between
the dingy buildings and the freight yards when they might have built
them where each window could have overlooked the climbing fields and
woods, where the children could have played in sweet grass the livelong
day and built beautiful snow forts when it was winter.
Beryl suddenly broke the silence by a gleeful "Isn't this fun?" as
Williams coasted down a long grade with a breath-catching acceleration
of speed.
The wind had whipped a fine color into the girls' cheeks, the changing
scenes about them were of untiring interest; they exclaimed delightedly
over each curve and hill in the road, each tiny hamlet through which
they passed. All too soon, they reached Cornwall and started on the
homeward way.
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