Book by Reed, Myrtle

Excerpt: ...surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved." "That was possible-but there can be no signal for me." "Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band." The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you- know, Aunt Francesca?" "Yes, dear." "For how long?" "Always, I think." "Did it seem-absurd, in any way?" "Not at all. I was hoping for it, until the wind changed. And," she added, with her face turned away, "Colonel Kent was, too." Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face. "That makes me feel," Rose breathed, "as if I hadn't been quite so foolish as I've been thinking I was." "Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn't suspect." "No," cried Rose sharply, "oh, no! Anything but that!" "It's hard to wear gloves when you don't want to," replied Madame, with seeming irrelevance, "but it's easier when there are others. The Colonel will need them, too-this is going to be hard on him." "Does-he-know?" whispered Rose, fearfully. "No," answered Madame, laughing outright, "indeed he doesn't. Did you ever know of a man discovering anything that wasn't right under his nose?" "And I am safe with-with-" "With everybody but Isabel. She may be foolish, but she's a woman, and even a woman can see around a corner." "Thank you for telling me," said Rose, after a little; "for giving me time. It was like you." "I'm glad I could, but remember, I haven't told you, officially. Let her tell you herself." Rose nodded. "Then I'll come down just as soon as I can." "With white gloves on, dear, and flags flying. Make your old aunt proud of you now, won't you?" "I'll try," she answered, humbly, then quickly closed the door. Meanwhile Colonel Kent, most correctly...

The proverbial “good resolutions” of the first of January which are usually forgotten the next day, the watch services in the churches, and the tin horns in the city streets, are about the only formalities connected with the American New Year. The Pilgrim fathers took no note of the day, save in this prosaic record: “We went to work betimes”; but one Judge Sewall writes with no small pride of the blast of trumpets which was sounded under his window, on the morning of January 1st, 1697. He celebrated the opening of the eighteenth century with a very bad poem which he wrote himself, and he hired the bellman to recite the poem loudly through the streets of the town of Boston; but happily for a public, even now too much wearied with minor poets, the custom did not become general.

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The pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. Behind the hills, the splendid tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of light to the grey East, where lay the sea, crooning itself to sleep. Bare boughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had so long been hidden by the snow. The thousand sounds and scents of Spring at last had waked the world. The man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone, and carefully feeling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face the valley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in living light from some vast loom of God's. His massive head was thrown back, as though he listened, with a secret sense, for music denied to those who see.

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This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.