The Atlantic Monthly, volume 11, No. 67, May, 1863
The Atlantic Monthly, volume 11, No. 67, May, 1863
Various
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"I thought, " he said. --great drops of sweat coming out on his sallowlips, --"God meant you to help me. There is my life, little girl. You maydo what you will with it. It does not value much to me. " And Grey, woman-like, gathered up the despised hand and life, and sobbeda little as she pressed them to her heart. An hour after, they wenttogether up the old porch-steps, halting a moment where the grape-vinesclustered thickest about the shingled wall. The house was silent; eventhe village slept ...in the moonlight: no sound of life in the greatsweep of dusky hill and valley, save the wreaths of mist over thewatercourses, foaming and drifting together silently: before morningthey would stretch from base to base of the hills like a Dead Sea, ashyand motionless. They stood silent a moment, until the chirp of somerobin, frightened by their steps in its nest overhead, had hummeddrowsily down into sleep. "It is not good-night, but good-bye, that I must bid you, Grey, " hesaid, stooping to see her face.
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