 Chapter 31 of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas-Wiggin. Chapter 31 Ant Miranda's Apology When Rebecca alighted from the train at Maplewood and hurried to the post office where the stage was standing, what was her joy to see Uncle Jerry Cobb holding the horse's heads? The regular driver's sick. He explained. And when they sent for me, thinks I to myself, my driving days is over, that Rebecca will let the grass grow under her feet when she gets her Aunt Jane's letter, and like is not, I'll catch her today. Or she gets delayed, tomorrow for certain. So here I'd be just as I was more than six years ago. Will you be a real lady passenger, or will you sit up in front with me? Emotions of various sorts were all struggling together in the old man's face, and the two or three bystanders were astounded when they saw the handsome, stately girl fling herself onto Mr. Cobb's dusty shoulder, crying like a child. Oh, Uncle Jerry! She sobbed. Dear Uncle Jerry, it's all so long ago and so much has happened and we've grown so old and so much is going to happen that I'm fairly frightened. Dear, dear, lovey. The old man whispered, comfortingly, We'll be all alone on the stage, and we'll talk things over as we go along the road and maybe they won't look so bad. Every mile of the way was as familiar to Rebecca as to Uncle Jerry. Every watering trough, grindstone, red barn, weather vane, duck pond, and sandy brook. All the time she was looking backward to the day, seemingly so long ago, when she sat in the box seat for the first time, her legs dangling in the air, too short to reach the footboard. She could smell the big bouquet of lilacs, see the pink flounced parasol, feel the stiffness of the starched, buff calico, and the hated prick of the black and yellow porcupine quills. The drive was taken almost in silence, but it was a sweet, comforting silence both to Uncle Jerry and the girl. Then came the sight of a baija flag, shelling beans in the barn, and then the Perkins attic windows with the white cloth fluttering from them. She could spell Emma Jane's loving thought and welcome in that little waving flag. A word and a message sent to her just at the first moment when Riverborough chimneys rose into view, something to warm her heart till they could meet. The brick house came next, looking just as of your, though it seemed to Rebecca as if death should have cast some mysterious spell over it. There were the rolling meadows, the stately elms, all yellow and brown now, the glowing maples, the garden beds bright with asters, and the hollyhocks, rising tall against the parlor windows. Only in place of the cheerful pinks and reds of the nodding stalks, with their gay rosettes of bloom, was a crepe scarf holding the blinds together, and another on the sitting-room side, and another on the brass knacker of the brown painted door. Stop, Uncle Jerry, don't turn it in at the side. Hand me my satchel, please. Drop me in the road and let me run up the path by myself, then drive away quickly. At the noise and rumble of the approaching stage, the house door opened from within, just as Rebecca closed the gate behind her. Aunt Jane came down the stone steps a changed woman, frail and broken and white. Rebecca held out her arms, and the old aunt crept into them feebly, as she did on that day when she opened the grave of her buried love and showed the dead face just for an instant to a child. Warmth and strength and life flowed into the age frame from the young one. Rebecca, she said, raising her head. Before you go in to look at her, do you feel any bitterness over anything she ever said to you? Rebecca's eyes blazed reproach, almost anger, as she said chokingly. Oh, Aunt Jane, could you believe it of me? I'm going in with a heart brimful of gratitude. She was a good woman, Rebecca. She had a quick temper and a sharp tongue, but she wanted to do right, and she did it as near as she could. She never said so, but I'm sure she was sorry for every hard word she spoke to you. She didn't take them back in life, but she acted so to you'd know her feeling when she was gone. I told her before I left that she'd been the making of me just as Mother says. Sobbed, Rebecca. She wasn't that, said Jane. God made you in the first place, and you've done considerable yourself to help him along, but she gave you the wherewithal to work with, and that ain't to be despised, especially when anybody gives up her own luxuries and pleasures to do it. Now let me tell you something, Rebecca. Your Aunt Miranda's willed all this to you, the brick house, and the buildings and furniture, and the land all round the house, as far as you can see. Rebecca threw off her hat and put her hand to her heart, as she always did in moments of intense excitement. After a moment's silence, she said, Let me go on alone. I want to talk to her. I want to thank her. I feel as if I could make her hear and feel and understand. Jane went back into the kitchen, to the inexorable tasks that death has no power, even for a day, to blot from existence. He can stalk through dwelling after dwelling, leaving despair and desolation behind him, but the table must be laid, the dishes washed, the beds made by somebody. Ten minutes later, Rebecca came out from the great presence, looking white and spent, but chastened and glorified. She sat in the quiet doorway, shaded from the little river borough world by the overhanging elms. A wide sense of thankfulness and peace possessed her, as she looked at the autumn landscape, listened to the rumble of a wagon on the bridge, and heard the call of the river as it dashed to the sea. She put up her hands softly and touched first the shining brass knocker and then the red bricks, glowing in the October sun. It was home, her roof, her garden, her green acres, her deer trees. It was shelter for the little family at Sunnybrook. Her mother would have once more the companionship of her sister and the friends of her girlhood. The children would have teachers and playmates. And she, her own future was close folded still, folded and hidden in beautiful mists. But she leaned her head against the sun-warm door, and closing her eyes, whispered, just as if she had been a child, saying her prayers. God bless Aunt Miranda, God bless the brick house that was, God bless the brick house that is to be.