For
years thereafter, through dark and bright days, she conveyed that
nest of hungry fledglings back and forth over bitter and weary
miles, getting their ravenous minds fed at one end of the route,
and their ravenous bodies fed at the other. If the harness broke,
Pansy got out with a string. If the horse dropped a shoe, or
dropped himself, Pansy picked up what she could. In town she drove
to the blacksmith shop and to all other shops whither business
called her. Her friends were the blacksmith and the tollgate
keeper, her teachers--all who knew her and they were few: she had
no time for friendships. At home the only frequent visitor was
Ambrose Webb, and Pansy did not care for Ambrose. The first time
she remembered seeing him at dinner, she--a very little girl--had
watched his throat with gloomy fascination. Afterward her mother
told her he had an Adam's apple; and Pansy, working obscurely at
some problem of theology, had secretly taken down the Bible and
read the story of Adam and the fearful fruit. Ambrose became
associated in her mind with the Fall of Man; she disliked the
proximity.
No time for friendships. Besides the labors at school, there was
the nightly care of her father on her return, the mending of his
clothes; there was the lonely burning of her candle far into the
night as she toiled over lessons. When she had learned all that
could be taught her at the school, she left the younger children
there and victoriously transferred herself for a finishing course
to a seminary of the town, where she was now proceeding to graduate.
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