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Updated: September 14, 2025
"Sir Graham, I'll confess to you even this, that on Sunday evening, when, after the service, we sang that hymn, 'Lead, Kindly Light, I thought would it not be a very beautiful thing if the body mouldering beneath that stone in the churchyard yonder were indeed the body of of your wonder-child." "Uniacke!" "Yes, yes. Don't you remember how he looked up from his sordid misery to the rainbow?"
She is indeed a 'Wonder-Child. Thank you very much for the Report, Gazette, and Helen's Journal. The last made me realize the great disappointment to the dear child more than before. Please give her my warm love, and tell her not to feel troubled about it any more.
And first among them will be my wonder-child, on whom will fall a ray of light from a wild moon, half seen through the narrow slit of the deep-set window." "No, no!" "What do you say?" "Your wonder-child must not be there. Why should he? He is alive." "You think so?" Uniacke made no reply. "I say, do you think so?" "How can I know? It is impossible. But yes, I think so."
Poor children, looking at the sky! Ah, Uniacke, what do you think of that for a sermon?" The young clergyman cleared his throat. The red curtains by the narrow window blew outward towards the fire, and sank in again, alternately forcible and weak. The painter looked towards the window and a sadness deepened in his eyes. "Where is my wonder-child now?" he said. "You have lost sight of him?"
It might be that the wonder-child was born to be wrecked, to be cast up, streaming with sea-water on the strand of this lonely isle. It might be that the eyes which worshipped the rainbow were sightless beneath that stone yonder; that the hands which pointed to it were folded in the eternal sleep. And, if so, was not the lie justified? If so, could Peter Uniacke regret it?
His Opus 5, written in 1833, was based on a theme by Clara, and, according to Reissman, showed a feeling of "reverence for her genius rather than of love." He began also to publish most enthusiastic criticisms of her concerts, calling her "the wonder-child," and "the first German artist," one who "already stands on the topmost peak of our time." He even printed verses upon her genius.
But Amaryllis was looking about her. "Is it gone, that awful thing?" she asked, whispering. "Gone for good," said Dick. "And, oh! the car? How did you ever stop it?" "You stopped it, you wonder-child. And there's a great deal more 'how' about that." "Then then it's the same thing as last time?" she said, her face paling once more. "The same thing," admitted Dick. "It was him or us, you know.
Of her in her childhood it has been said that she was never the wonder-child of fiction who at ten has read all that its author probably had not read at thirty. So now of her budding maturity she was not the wonder-woman of fiction, causing by her brilliance her hearers, like Cortez's men, to stare at each other with a wild surmise. No, nothing so unlikely.
I saw that Colin Camber had detected my interest, for: "Ah Tsong is really my wife's servant," he explained. "Oh," she said in a low voice, and looked at me earnestly, "Ah Tsong nursed me when I was a little baby so high." She held her hand about four feet from the floor and laughed gleefully. "Can you imagine what a funny little thing I was?" "You must have been a wonder-child, Mrs.
Merely moderately prosperous but inordinately ambitious, she had dared to dream of this famous wonder-child for her Sarah. Refusal daunted her not, nor did she cease her campaign till, after trying every species of trick and manœuvre and misrepresentation, every weapon of law and illegality, she had carried home the reluctant bridegroom.
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