She was helped into the buggy by Andrew Zane, and in a few
minutes the two were in the open country pointing toward old Frankford.
They rode up the long stony street of that old village, whose stone or
rough-cast houses suggested the Swiss city of Basle whence the early
settlers of Frankford came. Then turning through the factory dale called
Little Britain, they sped out the lane, taking the general direction of
Tacony Creek, and followed that creek up through different little
villages and mill-seats until they came to nearly the highest mill-pond,
in the stony region about the Old York road. A house of gray and reddish
stones, in irregular forms, mortised in white plaster, sat broadside to
the lawn before it, which was covered with venerable trees, and bordered
at the roadside by a stone rampart, so that it looked like a hanging
lawn. A gate at the lawn-side gave admission to a lane, behind which was
the ancient mill-pond suspended in a dewy landscape, with a path in the
grass leading up the mill-race, and on the pond a little scow floated in
pond-lilies. All around were chestnut trees, their burrs full of fruit.
Across the lane, only a few feet from the house, the ancient mill gave
forth a snoring and drumming together as if the spirit of solitude was
having a dance all to itself and only breathing hard.
Pages:
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288