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Updated: May 11, 2025
Van Haltford's man came in and got Miss Dering's telegram yesterday, but it was not delivered to me until a neighbor came to the house with both the message and messenger in charge. Joseph had drunk all the whisky in Fossingford. "Then there's no chance for me to get a drink, I suppose," said Rossiter with a wry smile. "Do you need one?" asked Miss Dering saucily. "I have a headache."
Murray went back to the city. He had intended going long before, but had put it off, a week at a time, until winter had finally come; then he decided with a sudden determination, and, as if to test his firmness of purpose, had slipped away from Pansy, and galloped into town, trusting to the darkness to hide from Canfield's prying eyes, that he was coming to the Dering's alone.
The milk that is raising cream is on the back swing-shelf, down cellar. That is all, isn't it?" "Yes'm, and I guess we'll manage all right. Tell Mrs. Dane I'm sorry she's sick. Good-bye." "Everything looks beautiful, and I hope you'll have a pleasant time, dears," was Mrs. Dering's next remark, as she glanced into the parlors on her way out.
Sometimes they do in books, sometimes they do out; and this afternoon in the sunshiny woods, two little acorns had been planted. One of them was when Paul Murray had looked with careless eyes into Kittie Dering's face, and found in its bright girlish sweetness, what had been lacking for him, in any woman's face since he lost his wife; namely interest.
Dering's dress and bursting into tears. "What ever has he done?" cried Kat, bouncing excitedly out of her chair. "Was he cross? or perhaps he pinched you or something." "No, he didn't," said Jean, trembling but smiling through her tears. "He was very good and kind, and didn't look near so cross as he did in here.
It seems to me a very little for seven people to live on, but we are all strong and well, and can work." "Yes, all strong and well but Jean," and Mrs. Dering's eyes went wistfully to the little unconscious face resting on the pillow. "She will have to be so neglected in more ways than one, if home is broken up and every one's hands and work belonging to some one else."
She frowned severely, and looked bitterly pained, but she said nothing until the rest had left the room, then she came to Mrs. Dering's side. "Oh, mama, are you really going to let her go?" "Yes, dear." "How can you? Such a cruel, selfish, unfeeling " "Hush, Olive." Olive did so instantly, and stood with her hands folded and eyes down, the very picture of bitter defiant distrust, and Mrs.
She was exhausted, and required the porter, like a labourer in the cornfield. Emma looked at him, and perceived the poet swamped by the admirer. Taken in conjunction with Mr. Cuthbert Dering's frenzy for calculating, she disliked the incident of the porter and the pewter. 'While the Cantatrice swallowed her draught, I suppose Mr. Dering counted the cost? she said.
It is done in a book this time; but Olive Dering's love and longing for art, her struggles, determination, and final success, are taken from the life of one who still lives, and who is now enjoying the perfect happiness earned by hard labor, in the galleries of the old masters.
Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams.
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