A Farmer’s Life 
she had been a prey to a sort of home-sickness 
during many years ; and that to come to this house 
as an inmate was, for her, something like coming 
home at last. It fed the hunger of years; it put 
an end to a heartache she had never grown quite 
used to. 
It was in going mentally over her history that 
I began to see this, while I was writing the narra- 
tive of her father’s life. Ann herself certainly 
never lamented; would have been grieved, or 
would have laughed perhaps, had anyone hinted 
that her life had ever been lonely. Nobody, and 
least of all herself, thought her unhappy. She 
was as chirrupy asa bird. They say that as soon 
as she was awakened o’ mornings she began 
chattering like a child—which is what she always 
was in temper—a seven-year-old in simplicity, no 
longer childish but childlike to the end. She 
never could believe that people liked to be alone 
sometimes—she had no need for solitude herself. 
Nor yet did it ever seem fit to her to be long without 
speaking, if there was anybody to speak to. That 
would have been to behave morosely, and morose 
she never was. As I say, she was a child in 
temper; a child of most sensitive affection, 
knowing no place like home. Almost tragic was 
it, therefore, to be practically obliged to leave 
every place she could have looked upon as home 
for fifty or sixty years. 
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