United States or Anguilla ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Sometimes floods or heavy rains find their way down unknown crevices into the pit, where the miner is working, and forming a rapid torrent, suddenly inundates the mine and sweeps all before it. Such was the life young Mark Gilbart was apparently doomed to lead. We must proceed more rapidly than heretofore with Mark Gilbart's history.
Still many lingered on in the hopes that the corve might be again sent down, but the viewer forbade any to descend, as it must prove their destruction. At length some men came to carry young Gilbart's corpse to his mother's cottage. She and Mark followed with tottering steps. The sad truth had forced itself on her that she was a widow the two bread-winners of her household gone.
It caught Gilbart's eye, and somehow it seemed to lift and remove her and the house she was entering the lit windows, the guests, the Admiral himself into another world. If so, here was another world waiting to be shattered a world of silks and toys and pretty uniforms and tiny bric-a-brac a sort of doll's house inhabited by angels at play. But could it be real?
Gilbart's ear caught and retained but a line or two of their shrill chorus: Through the world so wide He's old England's pride, But we'er glad now he's come back: For he's dressed in blue, And he's always true Heaven bless you, dear old Jack!
The tall club flagstaff behind and above Gilbart's head wore its full code of signals, with blue ensign on the gaff and blue burgee at the topmast head, and fluttered them intermittently as the nor'westerly breeze broke down in flaws over the leads of the club-house. Below him half a dozen small boys with bundles of programmes came skirmishing up the hill through the sparse groups of onlookers.
The performance had begun; but they found seats in the front row of the dress circle, almost before she had ceased panting, and Milly was unpinning her hat and glancing up at the gallery on the chance of an envious friendly recognition. The lights, the colours, the clash of brass in the orchestra made Gilbart's head spin.
Prospect Place was its deceptive name, and it ran parallel with three precisely similar thoroughfares Grafton Place, Alderney Place, and Belvedere Avenue. These four with a cross-street, where the Mission Room stood facing a pawnbroker's comprised Gilbart's field of labour. He reached home a little after twelve, ate his dinner, and fell to work on his manuscript.
Their common love of books may have helped; for Casey Heaven knew where or how had picked up an education far above Gilbart's, and amazing in a common stoker. Also he wore some baffling, attractive mystery behind his reserve.
Affability was a part of Gilbart's profession, and besides, he hated to see a woman suffer. He edged toward her and lifted his hat. "I hope," said he, "these persons are not annoying you? They don't understand, of course. I, too, have a friend on the Berenice." The woman looked at him as though she heard but could not for the moment grasp what he said.
To the eastward a couple of belated twenties came creeping out from their anchorage in Cattewater. All this Gilbart's gaze took in; with the stately merchantmen riding beyond the throng, and the low breakwater three miles away, and the blue horizon beyond all.
Word Of The Day