Summary

Portrait of Catharine Maria Sedgwick Catharine Maria Sedgwick The Travellers: A Tale, Designed for Young People

Even Mrs. Barton had lost her downcast despondent look, and the pleasant light of gratitude and hope was diffused over her honest countenance. Edward and Julia were unusually animated, and their mother observed their joyous step as they bounded over the decks, their sparkling glances, and their gleeful chatterings which fell like music on her ear: she traced their uncommon spirits to the little struggle and victory of the preceding day, and rightly, for it is active goodness that commands the secret spring of joy—virtue that opens all the sweet fountains of happiness within us.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Catharine Maria Sedgwick Catharine Maria Sedgwick The Travellers: A Tale, Designed for Young People

Our youthful readers have, we trust, been entire strangers to those joys that are preceded by suffering, and which remind us of some clouds that send down their showers after the sun has broken through. They would have been as much surprised as were Edward and Julia, if they had seen, instead of smiles and ecstasies, the deathlike paleness of Mrs. Barton, her husband dashing the tear from his eyes that he might gaze upon his children; Dickey looking timidly at him, and the little girl burying her face in her mother's gown. Yet this was joy—joy that no words could express
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Catharine Maria Sedgwick Catharine Maria Sedgwick The Travellers: A Tale, Designed for Young People

It would be impossible to record the exclamations of the children. “It is a perfect picture, mother, all the way,” said Julia.
“I like every thing but these dronish farmers,” said Edward. “See, papa,” he continued, (not, perhaps, unwilling to display his agricultural observation) “see, that groupe of men, black and white, all leaning on their hoes, and staring at us, and they will stand and look just so, until the next carriage comes along, while their corn is trying in vain to shoot above the weeds that choke it. They seem to have no more soul than the clods they stand upon.
Source: Gutenberg

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