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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Darrel of the Blessed Isles"

A door, with panels o' thick
glass, led to the garden walk. Beyond it were the dark forms of
men. One was peering in, his face at a panel, another kneeling at
the lock. Suddenly the door opened; the lady fell fainting with a
loud cry. Next day the kidnapped boy was born.'"

Darrel stopped reading, put the clipping into his pocket-book, and
smothered the torch.
"It seems the woman died the same day," said he.
"And was my mother," the words came in a broken voice.
Half a moment of silence followed them. Then Darrel rose slowly,
and a tremulous, deep sigh came from the lips of Trove.
"Thy mother, boy!" Darrel whispered.
The fire had burnt low, and the great shadow of the night lay dark
upon them. Trove got to his feet and came to the side of Darrel.
"Tell me, for God's sake, man, tell me where is my father," said he.
"Hush, boy! Listen. Hear the wind in the trees?" said Darrel.
There was a breath of silence broken by the hoot of an owl and the
stir of high branches. "Ye might as well ask o' the wind or the
wild owl," Darrel said. "I cannot tell thee. Be calm, boy, and
say how thou hast come to know."
Again they sat down together, and presently Trove told him of those
silent men who had ever haunted the dark and ghostly house of his
inheritance.


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