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Tremenheere, who had traveled in America and had written on the subject of education in our country; and Mr. Herbert Coleridge, the gifted son of Sara Coleridge young man of the highest promise, who had taken a double first-class at Oxford.
Her pretty feet were hidden in the tan-coloured, buttoned Paris boots which were the secret envy of every school girl in Carlisle. But Sara Ray was not happy. Her face was so melancholy that the Story Girl lost patience with her. The Story Girl herself was not altogether at ease. Probably her own conscience was troubling her. But admit it she would not.
Conway about coming to fix the back kitchen floor," she said, "and I have some other business that may keep me for some time, so don't be anxious if I'm not back till late. Give the bread a good kneading in an hour's time and be careful not to bake it too much." That was a dismal day. It began to rain soon after Sara left and it just poured.
"If you mean has any one asked me to marry him no, Tim. No one has done me that honour," she answered lightly. "Thank God!" he muttered below his breath. Sara looked troubled. "Haven't you got over that, yet?" she said, hesitatingly. "I I hoped you would, Tim." "I shall never get over it," he asserted doggedly. "And I shall never give you up till you are another man's wife."
Your name isn't likely to be shouted from the housetops, for the simple reason that it is safely locked up in a grave." She hesitated for a moment and then added: "In two graves, if it makes you feel more secure." The others looked at her in open astonishment. Booth was frowning. Sara glanced at his stern face and her eyes fell. "If that sounded cold and unfeeling, I am sorry, Hetty.
I knew I would be brought back the next day, though," laughed Sara. "Mamma is so strict with me. I suppose yours is too?" "I have no mother or father," answered Daisy. "All my life I have lived with John Brooks and his sister Septima, on the Hurlhurst Plantation. I call them aunt and uncle. Septima has often told me no relationship at all existed between us."
Good God, Sara, is there a man living to-day who could have planned this thing you have cherished all these months? Not one! And all men will curse you for it, even though they send me to prison or to the chair. But they will not condemn me. They will hear my story and they will set me free. And then, what of you?" Sara stood perfectly rigid, regarding this earnest reasoner with growing wonder.
No Sicilian sunrise was ever more glossy with the patina of hope than the iced one that crept in for a look at the wide-faced, high-cheek-boned beauty of Sara Turkletaub as she lay with her sons to the miracle of her full breasts, her hair still rumpled with the agony of deliverance.
"She's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed. "I believe you hate her," said Jessie. "No, I don't," snapped Lavinia. "But I don't believe in mines full of diamonds." "Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie. "Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think Gertrude says?" "I don't know, I'm sure; and I don't care if it's something more about that everlasting Sara."
I think I have drunk all the world's pleasures dry, except this one. Mother, don't keep it from me; I know no rest except I am beside Sara." He rarely spoke to her so freely, and, despite her pain, the mother was touched. "Go, then, go to Sara; and the matter I wished to speak upon we will discuss now."
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