He spoke in a low tone as if not aware that he was
heard, and his voice sounded as if he also did not hear it, and could
not, therefore, give it pitch or intonation:
"Is this the best of old Kensington? This is the East! Where I dreamed
that life was pure as the water from the dear old pump that quenched my
thirst in boyhood--not bitter as the alkali of the streams of the
plains, nor turbid like the rills of the Arkansas. I pined to leave that
life of renegades, half-breeds, squaws, and nomads to bathe my soul in
the clear fountains of civilization,--to live where marriage was holy
and piety sincere. I find, instead, mystery, blood, dishonor, hypocrisy,
and shame. Let me go back! The rough frontier suits me best. If I can
hear so much wickedness, deaf as I am, let me rather be an unsocial
hermit in the woods, hearing nothing lower than thunder!"
As Duff Salter went to his dinner that day he looked at Agnes sitting in
her place, so ill at ease, and said to himself,
"It is true."
* * * * *
Another matter of concern was on Mr. Duff Salter's mind--his
serving-man. Such an unequal servant he had never seen--at times full of
intelligence and snap, again as dumb as the bog-trotters of Ireland.
"What was the matter with you yesterday?" asked the deaf man of Mike one
day.
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