The summer following Abigail’s death was the happiest Thorne had ever known. She woke each morning, expectantly, to the crow of a very young rooster. Always before she had protested the cockcrow and the enforced early resin of the farm. But now she strange joyously from bed, as though the summer day were not long enough to hold all of the delight it promised. Sometimes she was dressed and roaming the woods before Millie had her breakfast fire started. Berries were ripe now and nothing, to Richard’s think, equaled a bow of blackberries fresh with dew to begin the morning meal.
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