Lord
Earle jumped up and caught her in his arms.
"Bertie, my boy," he said, "always be kind to little Beatrice!"
The child clasped her arms round his neck. He kissed the dark
eyes and murmured to himself, "Poor little Beatrice!"
The summer wind that played among the roses, lifting the golden,
rippling hair from Lillian's forehead and tossing her little
girl's curls into Lord Earle's face, was singing a sweet, low
requiem among the trees that shaded the grave of Beatrice Earle.
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Dora Thorne, by Charlotte M. Braeme
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