...
"Well, no matter how bad she is, she certainly was a beaut, the last
time I saw her."
"I'm going," I continued "(you mustn't tell anybody), I'm going down to
Aunt Rachel's, after I leave here, and _get_ Phoebe." And eagerly and
naively we discussed the possibilities as we walked homeward....
* * * * *
After my talk with Uncle Beck all my morbidity began to melt away, and,
growing better in mind, my body grew stronger ... he wrote to my father
that it was not consumption ... so now I was turning my coming West into
a passing visit, instead of a long enforced sojourn there for the good
of my health.
* * * * *
I found different household arrangements on revisiting Aunt Rachel and
her household.
For one thing, the family had moved into town ... Newcastle ... and they
had a fine house to live in, neat and comfortable. Gone was that
atmosphere of picturesque, pioneer poverty. Though, to be sure, there
sat Josh close up against the kitchen stove, as of old. For the first
sharp days of fall were come ... he was spitting streams of tobacco, as
usual.
"I hate cities," was his first greeting to me. He squirted a brown
parabola of tobacco juice, parenthetically, into the wood-box behind the
stove, right on top of the cat that had some kittens in there.
Aunt Rachel caught him at it.
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