Joy and grief, birth and death, had made
sacred forever this little house of dreams.
And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while
she had contended against the idea to Gilbert. The
little house was outgrown. Gilbert's interests made
the change necessary; his work, successful though it
had been, was hampered by his location. Anne realised
that the end of their life in this dear place drew
nigh, and that she must face the fact bravely. But how
her heart ached!
"It will be just like tearing something out of my
life," she sobbed. "And oh, if I could hope that some
nice folk would come here in our place--or even that it
would be left vacant. That itself would be better than
having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of
the geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history
that has given this house its soul and its identity.
And if such a tribe come here the place will go to rack
and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so quickly
if it is not carefully attended to. They'll tear up my
garden--and let the Lombardies get ragged--and the
paling will come to look like a mouth with half the
teeth missing--and the roof will leak--and the plaster
fall--and they'll stuff pillows and rags in broken
window panes--and everything will be out-at-elbows.
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