Miss Pinshon, sharing to the full my aunt's discontent,
would have got on horseback, I verily believe, to be with me
in my rides; but she was no rider. The sound of a horse's four
feet always, she confessed, stamped the courage out of her
heart. I was let alone; and the Sunday evenings in the
kitchen, and the bright morning hours in the pine avenues and
oak groves, were my refreshment and my pleasure, and my
strength.
What there was of it; for I had not much strength to boast for
many a day. Miss Pinshon tried her favorite recipe whenever
she thought she saw a chance, and I did my best with it. But
my education that winter was quite in another line. I could
not bear much arithmetic. Bending over a desk did not agree
with me. Reading aloud to Miss Pinshon never lasted for more
than a little while at a time. So it comes, that my
remembrance of that winter is not filled with school
exercises, and that Miss Pinshon's figure plays but a
subordinate part in its pictures. Instead of that, my memory
brings back first and chiefest of all, the circle of dark
faces round the kitchen light wood fire, and the yellow blaze
on the page from which I read; I a little figure in white,
sitting in the midst among them all.
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