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Updated: July 8, 2025
She led us out through her bower and up the little path that ran to the embrasure. Through the quiet came a sound, a sighing, a half-mournful whispering that beat about us and fled away. "They come!" cried Lakla, the light of battle in her eyes. Larry drew her to him, raised her in his arms, kissed her. "A woman!" acclaimed the O'Keefe. "A real woman and mine!"
Something flashed through the darkening waters not a stone's-throw from the steamer. I leaned forward, watching it intently. Two silvery fish were making a succession of little leaps and plunges along the surface of the sea, their bodies catching the last tints of sunset, like flashing jewels. I looked at the tillicum quickly. He was watching me a world of anxiety in his half-mournful eyes.
This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice! Whenever I have need to strengthen myself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see again the gentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear his voice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembrance of him protects my life, and gives it light. He, too, was a saint and martyr here below.
"Don't spoil me," she said, with a pretty half-mournful, half-playful glance. "'A petted bride makes an unhappy wife. Surely it is no true kindness to tempt us to count on an indulgence that cannot last." "There is among us," I rejoined, "a saying about 'breaking a butterfly on the wheel' as if one spoke of driving away the tiny birds that nestle and feed in your flowers with a hammer.
"I am glad, too." And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened. "Is that little Lyle Derwent?" cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name. "How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you.
And, in fact, had the vexed wind been able to break through the wall and embody itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered the producer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor so often displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently endeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello.
'Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles; we Greeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar! the rapture of a true Grecian game the emulation of man against man the generous strife the half-mournful triumph so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to see him overcome! But ye understand me not. 'The kid is excellent, said Sallust.
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