He stretched out his hands for
his clothes, determined to fly from this house, but remembering
the lonely road that led to the station he fell back on his
pillow. The geese still cackled, but he was too tired to be kept
awake any longer. He seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes
when he heard Mike calling him. Mike had come half way up the
ladder and was telling him that breakfast was ready. "What kind of
breakfast will he give me?" Bryden asked himself as he pulled on
his clothes. There were tea and hot griddle cakes for breakfast,
and there were fresh eggs; there was sunlight in the kitchen and
he liked to hear Mike tell of the work he was going to do in the
fields. Mike rented a farm of about fifteen acres, at least ten of
it was grass; he grew an acre of potatoes and some corn, and some
turnips for his sheep. He had a nice bit of meadow, and he took
down his scythe, and as he put the whetstone in his belt Bryden
noticed a second scythe, and he asked Mike if he should go down
with him and help him to finish the field.
"You haven't done any mowing this many a year; I don't think you'd
be of much help. You'd better go for a walk by the lake, but you
may come in the afternoon if you like and help to turn the grass
over."
Bryden was afraid he would find the lake shore very lonely, but
the magic of returning health is the sufficient distraction for
the convalescent, and the morning passed agreeably. The weather
was still and sunny. He could hear the ducks in the reeds.
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