"It is all yours, Moira
Lynch! It is all yours!" The beauty around her--the promise of spring,
the green of orchard and meadow and distant hill, the rest, the
contentment--the happiness, and oh, most precious, the fulfilment.
There was never a day now, in Mother Moira's life, so busy that she
could not snatch a moment to go over, in reverent appreciation, the
blessings that were hers. And no longer were her dreams--for nothing
could change the dreaming heart of the little woman--for herself or
even for her big Danny; they were for her fine lad, a man now, and
Beryl, working so earnestly for her ambition, and little Robin, who
would always _be_ little Robin, and the imp of a Susy, ruddy cheeked and
happy-hearted.
How long, long ago seemed those days when, a slip of a girl, she had
dreamed on that other hillside of a future that would be hers; how
dazzling had been the pictures she had fancied; how much she had dared
to ask. In her youthful bravado she had laughed at Destiny and had made
so bold as to declare Destiny might even then be weaving a bit of gold
into the drab fabric of her life.
(Faith, was not little Robin her bit of gold? Had not the wonderful
change begun in their lives after little Robin came to the Manor?)
Five years had passed, since she and her big Danny had moved from the
village to the little farm that was "just around the corner.
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