Fog Magic Read Online Free

before—nor such seeing eyes. They were eyes that would always see through and beyond—even through the close mist of the fog itself. The woman put out her hand and drew Greta inside before she spoke again. Her voice was a little unsteady but very gentle.
    â€œYou are from over the mountain,” she said. “I can tell. And I’d know it even if this were the sunniest day in the year.”
    Greta didn’t quite know what the words meant but she knew somehow in her heart that she and this strange woman would understand each other without words. In just the flash of a moment they had traveled the longest road in the world—the road that leads from eye to eye.
    â€œI am Laura Morrill,” Retha’s mother continued quietly. “Retha shouldn’t have left you standing outside—not such a welcome guest. Now turn toward the light and let me look at you. Humph! Yes. You must be an Addington. Would your name be Greta, now? Yes?” She laughed. “So I guessed it right the very first time! Well, you have the Addington look and the Addington eyes, and there’s always a Greta among the Addingtons! Yes, and there’s always a child among the Addingtons that loves the fog it was born to. You’re that child, I take it, in your generation.” Her laughing face grew sober and she gave Greta a long, steady look. Then she smiled again quickly and smoothed back Greta’s hair with a quick stroke of her hand.
    â€œIt’s the things you were born to that give you satisfaction in this world, Greta. Leastwise, that’s what I think. And maybe the fog’s one of them. Not happiness, mind! Satisfaction isn’t always happiness by a long sight; then again, it isn’t sorrow either. But the rocks and the spruces and the fogs of your own land are things that nourish you. You can always have them, no matter what else you find or what else you lose. Now run along and let Retha show you the village. You two must get acquainted.”
    â€œMay I leave my pail here?” Greta asked her. “I picked quite a few berries for Mother, coming over.”
    â€œOf course you may,” Laura Morrill told her. “But that reminds me! You must be hungry. We’re through our dinner long since but I’ll get you something. I dare say you left home early.”
    â€œI brought a sandwich to eat on the way,” Greta told her. “Only there hasn’t been time.”
    â€œSit right down and eat it here, then. Retha, you fetch a glass of milk and I’ll get you a piece of strawberry pie. Retha went berrying early this morning, too, and I made my first wild strawberry pie of the season.”
    After Greta had eaten she and Retha went out to explore the village. Its single street followed the curve of the shore line. There were houses on only one side, with patches of gardens behind white fences. Across the road in a narrow stretch of meadow, cows were grazing. Thick spruces hedged the meadow in at the lower side where there was a sharp drop, almost a precipice, to the shore. But the street was high enough so that Greta knew on a clear day you could look from the houses straight out to the open sea.
    It was pleasant walking slowly up the street with Retha, but Greta couldn’t find anything to say. To ask questions might break the spell. She might find herself back again in the empty clearing. And Retha knew that it would be impolite to question a stranger. They reached the end of the street before either spoke.
    â€œThere’s our school, and there’s our church,” Retha said. She pointed out the little white building across the end of the street next to the neat church with its steeple.
    â€œThe shore curves in here, and there’s another bay down there where you can find all sorts of things to play with. Our church is nice. Sometime maybe you’ll be here on a Sunday so you can see it inside. There isn’t any burying ground,” she