I was old enough to feel all this,—­not to reason on it as I can now, but to rebel against it with all the violence of a vehement nature which feels its strength only in the injuries it inflicts upon itself in its useless struggles for freedom.  Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I lay with my head on my arms, leaning on that narrow window-sill,—­tears of passionate regret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might, by the very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that encircling forest into the world of which I dreamed,—­tears, too, that, being as I was, only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could not be allowed to care only for myself, and dream away my life in this same forest, which charmed me while it hemmed me in.  My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead, could I ever find an outlet for it; it had also a power of enjoyment, keen, vivid, could I ever get leave to enjoy.

At length came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight.  I remember, as if it were but yesterday, that afternoon which first showed to my physical sight something of that full life of which my imagination had framed a rude, faint sketch.  I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where the rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up the path that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost at my side, a man on horseback.  He stopped, and, half raising his hat, a motion I had never seen before, said,—­

“Is this Squire Boarders’s place?”

I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him.  I see him now as I saw him then; for my quick, startled glance took in the whole face and figure, which daguerreotyped themselves upon my memory.  A frank, open face, with well-cut and well-defined features and large hazel eyes, set off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and, throwing himself from his horse, a young man of about five-and-twenty stood beside me.  He had to repeat his question before I gained presence of mind enough to answer him.

“Is this Squire Boarders’s house, and do you think I could get a night’s lodging here?”

It was no unusual thing for us to give a night’s lodging to the boatmen from the river, or to the farmers from the back-country, as they passed to or from Catlettsburg; but what accommodation had we for such a guest as here presented?  I walked before him up the path to the house, and, shyly pointing to my step-mother, who stood on the porch, said,—­

“That’s Miss Boarders; you can ask her.”

And then, before he had time to answer, I fled in an agony of bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple behind the house.  I lingered there as long as I dared,—­longer, indeed, than I had any right to linger, for I heard my mother’s voice crying, “Janet!” and I well knew that there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread the table, or run the dozen errands that would be needed.  I slipped in by the back-door, and, escaping my step-mother’s peevish complaints, passed into the little closet which served us for pantry, and, scooping up the meal, began diligently to mix it.