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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Darrel of the Blessed Isles"

Daylight had begun to grow dim. The table, with its cover
of white linen, was a thing to give one joy. A ruby tower of
jelly, a snowy summit of frosted cake, a red pond of preserved
berries, a mound of chicken pie, and a corduroy marsh of mince,
steaming volcanoes of new biscuit, and a great heap of apple
fritters, lay in a setting of blue china. They stood a moment by
the stove,--the two sisters,--both trembling in this unusual
publicity. Miss Letitia had her hand upon the teapot.
"Our tea is ready," said she, presently, advancing to the table.
She spoke in a low, gentle tone.
"This is grand!" said he, sitting down with them. "I tell you,
we'll have fun before I leave here."
They looked up at him and then at each other, Letitia laughing
silently, S'mantha suspicious. For many years fun had been a thing
far from their thought.
"Play checkers?" he inquired.
"Afraid we couldn't," said Miss Letitia, answering for both.
"Old Sledge?"
She shook her head, smiling.
"I don't wish to lead you into recklessness," the teacher remarked,
"but I'm sure you wouldn't mind being happy."
Miss S'mantha had a startled look.
"In--in a--proper way," he added. "Let's be joyful.


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