These and other sensations of
malarial fever occupied me for a while. In half dreams I then enjoyed
the minutest details of life in an old farm-house that had been my
home, or walked through a picture-gallery I had once frequented, seeing
each picture strangely perfect and splendidly limned. Light diet and
keeping quiet--which every Westerner knows to be the cure of this
fever--cured me. I came forth looking like a _swairth_, one of those
words marked "obs." in the dictionary--means phantom of a person about
to die. It ought to be revived; so here goes--_swairth_.
Leaden before, my eyes were dross of lead.
I was pale and lank, but things had settled themselves in my mind: I
had gone back to my old ideas of honor and freedom; my mind was made
up.
"Well, Lydia," said I, "you wanted to manage: you were bound to wear
the breeches. As you make your pants, so you must sit in them."
"You awful man!" said she.
"Now I will manage," said I.
"Indeed! Nothing would please me better," said she.
"I will sell our house and all that's in it, and get out of debt," said
I.
"You mean to be one of the lower classes and wear old rags," she
exclaimed.
"We have no class-distinctions but the Saving Class and the Wasting
Class.
Pages:
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334