you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?
Well now, I just can t recollect that I ever had.
I have it lots of times--whenever I see anything royally beautiful.
But they shouldn t call that lovely place the Avenue. There is no
meaning in a name like that. They should call it--let me see--the
White Way of Delight. Isn t that a nice imaginative name? When I don t
like the name of a place or a person I always imagine a new one and
always think of them so. There was a girl at the asylum whose name was
Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia DeVere. Other
people may call that place the Avenue, but I shall always call it the
White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we
get home? I m glad and I m sorry. I m sorry because this drive has been
so pleasant and I m always sorry when pleasant things end. Something
still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. And it s so
often the case that it isn t pleasanter. That has been my experience
anyhow. But I m glad to think of getting home. You see, I ve never had
a real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant ache again
just to think of coming to a really truly home. Oh, isn t that pretty!
They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking
almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it
midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of
sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a
glory of many shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and
rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name
has ever been found. Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing
groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering
shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a
white-clad girl tiptoeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at the
head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs.
There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on
a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was
shining from one of its windows.
That s Barry s pond, said Matthew.
Oh, I don t like that name, either. I shall call it--let me see--the
Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know
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