Chapter 34. Gone

           

           Onahealthyautumnday,theMarshalseaprisoner,weakbutotherwiserestored,satlisteningtoavoicethatreadtohim.Onahealthyautumnday;whenthegoldenfieldshadbeenreapedandploughedagain,whenthesummerfruitshadripenedandwaned,whenthegreenperspectivesofhopshadbeenlaidlowbythebusypickers,whentheapplesclusteringintheorchardswererusset,andtheberriesofthemountainashwerecrimsonamongtheyellowingfoliage.Alreadyinthewoods,glimpsesofthehardywinterthatwascomingweretobecaughtthroughunaccustomedopeningsamongtheboughswheretheprospectshonedefinedandclear,freefromthebloomofthedrowsysummerweather,whichhadrestedonitasthebloomliesontheplum.So,fromtheseashoretheoceanwasnolongertobeseenlyingasleepintheheat,butitsthousandsparklingeyeswereopen,anditswholebreadthwasinjoyfulanimation,fromthecoolsandonthebeachtothelittlesailsonthehorizon,driftingawaylikeautumn-tintedleavesthathaddriftedfromthetrees.

           Changelessandbarren,lookingignorantlyatalltheseasonswithitsfixed,pinchedfaceofpovertyandcare,theprisonhadnotatouchofanyofthesebeautiesonit.Blossomwhatwould,itsbricksandbarsboreuniformlythesamedeadcrop.YetClennam,listeningtothevoiceasitreadtohim,heardinitallthatgreatNaturewasdoing,heardinitallthesoothingsongsshesingstoman.

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