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"Like a Bible." "Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt's stuff?" "It's funny; some of it. But I couldn't do it to save my job." "Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn something from it, though." "Burt doesn't like it, himself.
The reason was that, apart from the interest which she took in the pleasure of all her children, she lived much in her imagination, which was unusually strong, and Burt's words called up a marine picture with an athletic young fellow in the foreground all on the qui vive, his blue eyes flashing with the sparkle and light of the sea as he matched his skill and science against a creature stronger than himself.
Burt's technique is still a trifle over-sophisticated, but I suppose this is a fault on virtue's side. A collection of Mr. Burt's short stories in book form should be anxiously awaited by the American public. LONELY PLACES, and 10.
"I fear you are right," said Amy, with a half-sigh; "and yet it was lovely to feel just like Johnnie once more;" and she stole a shy glance at Webb, who must have heard some of her exclamations. The expression of his face seemed to reassure her, and without further misgiving she joined in a laugh at one of Burt's sallies. Amy's thoughts naturally reverted before very long to Mrs.
He went heavily down stairs and slammed the front door, and was gone for the day. When they were first married, after the bitter conviction that there was really no hope of old Burt's wealth, Fanny Dinks had carried matters with a high hand, domineering by her superior cleverness, and with a superiority that stung and exasperated her husband at every turn.
Best of mind and thankfulness of heart had conduced to refreshing repose, and the brightness of the new day was reflected in every face. Burt's ankle was painful, but this was a slight matter in contrast with what might have been his fate. He had insisted on being dressed and brought to the lounge in the breakfast-room.
"You are mistaken, sister Amy," he replied, with strong, quiet emphasis. The early twilight deepened around them, and gloomy night came on apace, but before Amy re-entered the house his unselfish efforts were rewarded. Burt's threatened disloyalty apparently had lost its depressing influence. Some subtile reassuring power had been at work, and the clouds passed from her face, if not from the sky.
Yet it was not upon the rescuing party that the murderers fixed their terror-stricken eyes, and the major and his friends had lost all thought of the miscreants above them for there, standing in the centre of the roadway, there with the light flickering over her pale sweet face, like a spirit from the tomb, stood none other than the much-enduring, cruelly-treated girl for whom Burt's murderous blow had been intended.
To Amy's surprise, Webb was the liveliest of the party, but he looked gaunt from fatigue so worn, indeed, that he reminded her of the time when he had returned from Burt's rescue. But there was no such episode as had then occurred before they parted for the night, and to this she now looked back wistfully. He rose before the others, pleaded fatigue, and went to his room.
His love for Amy was so deep that in a generous impulse of self-forgetfulness he was sorry for her, and sought to cheer her, and make what poor amends he could for Burt's absence, and all that it foreboded. "Since you don't say outright that I can't go," he said, "I think I'll venture;" and then, in a quiet, genial way, he began to talk about the storm and its effects.
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