The Two Guardians | Page 4

all known to
the two cousins by name, and owned as familiar friends. On the other
side, between two hills, each surmounted by its own rocky crest, lay
nestled in woods the grey Church tower and cottages of the village of
Fern Torr; and far away stretched the rich landscape of field, wood, and
pasture, ending at length in the blue line of horizon, where sky and sea
seemed to join.
"Beautiful! how clear!" was all Marian's exclamation, though she drew
up her horse and gazed with eager eyes, and a deep feeling of the
loveliness of the scene, but with scarcely a remark. There was
something in the sight which made her heart too full for words.
After a time of delighted contemplation, Ranger was summoned from a
close investigation of a rabbit-hole, and turning into a cart track, the
cousins rode down the side of the hill, where presently appeared an
orchard full of gnarled old apple trees, covered with fruit of all shades
of red, yellow, and green. A little further on were the large stone barns,
and picturesque looking house, which enclosed a farm-yard strewn with
heaps of straw, in which pigs, poultry, and red cows were enjoying
themselves. The gate was opened by a wild-looking cow-boy, who very
respectfully touched his cap; and at the house door appeared a nice
elderly looking old fashioned farmer's wife, who came forward to meet
them with bright looks of cordiality, and kindly greetings to Master
Edmund and Miss Marian.
"Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Cornthwayte," said Edmund, as he held
Marian's pony; "we are come to ask if you will give our ponies stable
room for a couple of hours, while we go fishing up the river."
"O yes, certainly, sir, but won't you come in a little while and rest? it is

a long walk for Miss Marian."
They did comply with her invitation so far as to enter the large clean
kitchen; the kitchen for show, that is to say, with the sanded floor, the
bunch of evergreens in the covered kitchen-range, the dark old
fashioned clock, the bright range of crockery, and well polished oaken
table; and there, while Marian laid aside her riding-skirt, the good
woman commenced her anxious inquiries for Sir Edmund.
"Pretty much the same as usual, thank you," said Edmund.
"No better, then, sir? Ah! I was afraid how it was; it is so long since I
have seen him at church, and he used to come sometimes last summer:
and my husband said when he saw him last week about the rent, he was
so fallen away that he would hardly have known him."
"It has been a very long illness," said Edmund.
"Yes, sir; I do wish we could see him about among us again, speaking
as cheerful as he used."
"Why he is very cheerful now, Mrs. Cornthwayte," said Edmund. "No
one who only heard him talk would guess how much he has to suffer."
Mrs. Cornthwayte shook her head with a sort of gesture of
compassionate admiration, and presently added,
"But do you think he gets better on the whole, Master Edmund? Do the
doctors say there is much likelihood of his being well again, and
coming among us?"
Edmund looked down and did not reply very readily. "I am afraid we
must not hope for that; we must be satisfied as long as he does not lose
ground, and I certainly think he has had less pain of late."
A little more conversation passed between Edmund and the good wife,
and a few words from Marian; after which they set off across one or
two fields towards the place of their destination, Marian carrying her

little sketching-basket in silence for some distance, until she suddenly
exclaimed, "Edmund, is papa really getting worse?"
"Why should you think so, Marian?"
"I don't know, only from what you say when people inquire after him;
and sometimes when I come to think about it, I believe he can do less
than last year. He gets up later, and does not go out so often, and now
you say he will never get quite well, and I always thought he would."
"No, I am afraid there is no likelihood of that, Marian: the doctors say
he may be much better, but never quite well."
"But do you think he is better?"
"He has had less suffering of late, certainly, and so far we must be
thankful; but, as you say, Marian, I am afraid he is weaker than last
time I was at home, and I thought him much altered when I came. Still
I do not think him materially worse, and I believe I might have thought
him improved, if I had been here all the winter."
Marian became silent again, for