"
The doctor raised his eyebrows at this peculiar pleasantry, but
managed to harrow his listener's heart by intimating that it would be
a confoundedly strange thing if young Dunlop did not appreciate _his_
advantages.
CHAPTER VIII.
CONVALESCENCE.
To be slowly recovering from a severe illness is almost like being
again a very little child. So thought Rose Macleod, as she lay between
lavender-scented sheets, in the quaint stone cottage, whose deep
old-fashioned window seats, and low whitewashed ceilings, were
becoming as familiar to her as the stately halls of her home. The
protracted leisure of convalescence was growing burdensome to her. So
many days had she watched the lights and shadows woven throughout the
greenery, just outside her window, or listened to the weird measure of
the rain when the wind surged like a sea through the foliage, or held
her breath for joy when a flying bird pulsed vividly across the sky,
or counted the milk-white flowers of the locust tree, as they strewed
the ground with blossoms, or noted the exact moment when the
morning-glories softly clasped their purple petals together, as though
unable to contain a greater fulness of joy than was brought by the
summer morning.
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