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Updated: June 25, 2025
Their good friends, Samuel and Eliza Philbrick, brought the sisters to their beautiful home in Brookline, and surrounded them with every care and comfort kind hearts could suggest. Sarah then found how very weary she was also, and how opportune was this enforced rest. "Thus," wrote Angelina some weeks afterwards to Jane Smith, "thus ended our summer campaign.
What crape could blind a lover's eyes, or what forced tone deceive a lover's ears? At his first sight of her face, Stephen started; at the first sound of her voice, he stood still, and exclaimed, "Mrs. Philbrick, you have been crying!" There was no gainsaying it, even if Mercy had not been too honest to make the attempt. She looked up mischievously at him, and tried to say lightly,
She gave a low cry, her face was flooded with crimson, and she sprang from the wall so hastily that her leaves and vines flew in every direction. "I am very sorry I frightened you so, Mrs. Philbrick," said Stephen, quite unconscious of the true source of her confusion. "I was just on the point of speaking, when you heard me.
From this stage, while the tents were being dismantled and packed into the bed-wagon accompanied by much merriment, she came to a point where she tried to think of some excuse that would enable her to return without seeming to make any concession. As it happened, the only person who gave Miss Mercy any thought as she waited forlornly by the roadside was Aunt Lizzie Philbrick.
Mercy did not speak. Stephen went on, beginning to be half-angry with this little, unknown woman from Cape Cod, who looked with the contemptuous glance of a princess upon the house in which he and his mother dwelt, "You are quite at liberty to throw up your lease, Mrs. Philbrick, if you choose. It was, perhaps, hardly fair to have let you hire the house without seeing it." Mercy started.
Henry Appel's maiden aunt Miss Lizzie Philbrick sixty or thereabouts.
Stephen forgot himself, forgot the fact that Mercy was comparatively a stranger, forgot every thing, except the one intense consciousness of this sweet woman-face looking up into his. Bending towards her, he said suddenly, "Mrs. Philbrick, your face is the very loveliest face I have ever seen in my life. Do not be angry with me.
He said such a bad word that Aunt Lizzie Philbrick exclaimed: "Oh, how dread-ful!" and asked him to remember where he was. Mr. Penrose replied that he did not care where he was that if her neck had been driven into her shoulders a foot she would say something, too. Mrs. J. Harry Stott and Mr.
Philbrick?" he said, he could almost have said "Mercy," and looked at her with a gaze of whose intentness he was hardly aware. Mercy felt a strange terror of this man; a few minutes ago a stranger, now already asking at her hands she hardly knew what, and compelling her in spite of herself. But she replied very quietly, with a slight smile, "Never, Mr. White. Now talk of something else, please.
When the next morning she knew that it was Mercy Philbrick, the poet, in whose lifeless presence she had stood, she exclaimed with a burst of tears, "Oh, I might have known that there was some subtile bond which made me kiss her! I have always loved her verses so." On the day after Lizzy Hunter returned from Mercy's funeral, Stephen White called at her house and asked to speak to her.
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