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A man came to Grassmere and left a hundred pound in a letter for George Fielding. Then he went on to Levi, and gave him a parcel and a note. The parcel contained the title-deeds of the house; and the note said: "Take the house and the furniture and pay me what you consider they are worth.
She blurted right out, 'Oh, do tell us, Edith, she said to me, 'is Mrs. Sewall's ball to announce your sister's engagement to her son? We're crazy to know! Of course I didn't let on at first that we weren't even invited, but it had to leak out later. Oh, it is simply humiliating!" "Is she at Grassmere now Mrs. Sewall, I mean?" I asked quietly. "Yes, she is.
You were right, I guess, as always. Let's forgive and forget. Mrs. Sewall writes to know if we will honor her by our presence at a luncheon at Grassmere. What do you say to that? With pleasure, kind lady, say I! I enclose your invitation. You'll be ravishing in a new gown which I want you to go right in and order at Madame's on me, understand, dearie. I'm going to blow myself to a new one, too.
But no, Susan, still look on me as your adviser, your elder brother, and in some measure your pastor. I shall write to you and watch over you, though it some distance and not so great a distance. I am always well horsed, and I know you will give me a bed at Grassmere once a quarter." "That we will," cried the farmer, warmly, "and proud and happy to see you cross the threshold, sir." "And, Mr.
The next week he called three times at Grassmere instead of twice, and asked himself how much longer he must wait before he should speak out. Prudence said, "A little more patience;" and so he still hid in his bosom the flame that burned him the deeper for this unnatural smothering. But he drank deep, silent draughts of love, and reveled in the bright future of his passion.
Every one who recalls the familiar picture knows what a dreary, hopeless scene it is the room stamped with poverty, the window stark and curtainless, the woman meagerly clad, the man bearing the marks of hardship. Suddenly in the face of all that, Mr. Jennings softly exclaimed, "That's living." Only five minutes ago I had said the same thing of life at Grassmere. "Is it?" I replied.
To-day, as he sat alone at the south window, he could overlook the fields of "Grassmere," where the rich promise of golden harvest "filled in all beauty and fulness the emerald cup of the hills," and the waving grain rippled in light and shade like the billows of some distant sunset sea.
Even as a little girl something had rankled in my heart, too, when our once unrestricted fields and hills gradually became posted with signs such as, "Idlewold, Private Grounds," "Cedarcrest, No Picnickers Allowed," "Grassmere, No Trespassing." I wasn't eighteen when I had my coming-out party.
I inquired. "What's the matter?" "Mrs. Sewall is giving a perfectly enormous ball at Grassmere on the twenty-fourth, and we're left out. That's the matter!" She tossed the mail on the table. "Oh," I said, "our invitations will come in the morning probably. There are often delays." "No, sir, I know better. The bridge club girls said their invitations came yesterday afternoon. I can't understand it.
But he shall have justice one day, when pitiless asses will find themselves more foul in the eyes of the All-pure than the thieves they crushed under four walls, and "The just shall shine forth as the sun, and they that turn* many to righteousness as the stars forever and ever." * Not crush. Thomas Robinson did not stay long at Grassmere. Things were said in the village that wounded him.
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