United States or Guatemala ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Yes, yes, you lov'd! by heaven you lov'd this false, this perfidious Myrtilla; for false she is; you lov'd her, and I'll have it so; nor shall the sister in me plead her cause.
"Indeed, I don't. I know of no reason whatever. How should I?" "Well, then, Mrs. Williamson's the matter! 'Myrtilla, as you call her. Something told me it was like this all along, though I couldn't bear to doubt you, and so I put it away. I wonder how often she's been here when I have known nothing about it."
"I care for it, certainly, for what it's going to be," said Myrtilla, making one of those honest distinctions which made her opinion so stimulating to Henry. "Yes, there you are. You're artistically ambitious for me; you know what I want to do, even before I know myself. That's why you're so good for me.
Perhaps she would write in the half-hour that remained between, say, a visit from Esther and the arrival of Williamson, to fix in a few intimate vivid words the charm of their afternoon together, and tell Esther in some new gratifying way what she was to her and why and how she was it; or when Henry had been there even more carefully in the absence of Williamson to read her his new poem, she would write him a long letter of literary criticism, just perceptibly vibrating with the emotion she might have felt for the romantic young poet, whom she allowed to call himself her "cavaliere servente," had she not been Williamson as well as Myrtilla, and had she not, as she somewhat unscientifically declared, been old enough to be his mother.
But an invincible prejudice, or perhaps rather fear, shut Angel's eyes from the appreciation of Myrtilla. She was sweet and beautiful, but to the child that Angel still was she suggested malign artifice. Angel looked at her as an imaginative child looks at the moon, with suspicion.
"Poor little woman!" said Esther to herself, as she looked to see the title of the book she was carrying. It included a curious Russian name, the correct pronunciation of which she foresaw she must ask Myrtilla on their next meeting. It was "The Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff."
One afternoon the step coming along the corridor was almost light enough to be Angel's, though a lover's ear told him that hers it was not. Once more that feminine rustle, the very whisper of romantic mystery; again the little feminine knock. Daintiness and Myrtilla! "Well, this is lovely of you, Myrtilla! But what courage!
Myrtilla heatedly asserted; "one who'd appreciate a real man, and not be playing about private with a tailor's dummy." Daniel Culser's face grew noticeably pinker. "I'm going," Myrtilla continued, rising. "Mr. Penny, I'd be happy to meet you under more social conditions. Here I cannot remain for for reasons. I might be tempted to " Mr.
As the hour approached when poor Myrtilla must change back to Williamson, Esther rose to say good-bye. "Come again soon, dear girl; you don't know the good you do me." The good, dear woman was entirely done by her unwearied, sympathetic discussion of the affairs and dreams of Esther, Mike, and Henry. "Oh, here is a wonderful new book I intended to talk to you about.
This year, forming as it did exactly a quarter of a century since Handel's death, and a complete century since his birth, was sought, says the Gent. Mag. Dr. Rousseau says that "the more time is beaten, the less it is kept." There were upwards of 500 performers. See ante, iii. 242. Lady Wronghead, whispers Mrs. Motherly, pointing to Myrtilla. 'Mrs. Motherly.
Word Of The Day