George MacDonald

David Elginbrod George MacDonald

Meg's mother stood at the cottage door, with arms akimbo and clouded brow, calling through theboles of a little forest of fir-trees after her daughter. One would naturally presume that the phraseshe employed, comparing her daughter's motions to those of a shuttle that had "gane wull," or lostits way, implied that she was watching her as she threaded her way through the trees. But althoughshe could not see her, the fir-wood was certainly the likeliest place for her daughter to be in; and thefigure she employed was not in the least inapplicable to Meg's usual mode of wandering through thetrees, that operation being commonly performed in the most erratic manner possible. It was theordinary occupation of the first hour of almost every day of Margaret's life. As soon as she woke inthe morning, the fir-wood drew her towards it, and she rose and went. Through its crowd of slenderpillars, she strayed hither and thither, in an aimless manner, as if resignedly haunting theneighbourhood of something she had lost, or, hopefully, that of a treasure she expected one day tofind.