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Little Eve Edgarton

Creator: Abbott, Eleanor Hallowell, 1872-1958
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commendable of you, I'm sure, and some one, doubtless, will be very much relieved. But for me personally the incident is closed! Closed, I said. Do you understand?" Bruskly he turned back toward his own room, and then swung around again suddenly in the doorway. "Eve," he frowned. "That was a joke--wasn't it?--what you said about wanting to keep that young man?" "Why, of course!" said little Eve Edgarton. "Well, I must say--it was an exceedingly clumsy one!" growled her father irritably. "Maybe so," droned little Eve Edgarton with unruffled serenity. "It was the first joke, you see, that I ever made." Slowly again her eyes began to widen. "All the same, Father," she said, "his--" "Hush!" he ordered, and slammed the door conclusively behind him. Very thoughtfully for a moment little Eve Edgarton kept right on standing there in the middle of the room. In her eyes was just the faintest possible suggestion of a smile. But there was no smile whatsoever about her lips. Her lips indeed were quite drawn and most
The Child of the Dawn

THE CHILD OF THE DAWN By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE [Greek: edu ti tharsaleais ton makron teiein bion elpisin] Author of THE UPTON LETTERS, FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW, BESIDE STILL WATERS, THE ALTAR FIRE, THE SCHOOLMASTER, AT LARGE, THE GATE OF DEATH, THE SILENT ISLE, JOHN RUSKIN, LEAVES OF THE TREE, CHILD OF THE DAWN, PAUL THE MINSTREL 1912 To MY BEST AND DEAREST FRIEND HERBERT FRANCIS WILLIAM TATHAM IN LOVE AND HOPE
flagrantly set with the expression of one who, having something determinate to say, will--yet--say it, somewhere, sometime, somehow, though the skies fall and all the waters of the earth dry up. Then like the dart of a bird, she flashed to her father's door and opened it. "Father!" she whispered. "Father!" "Yes," answered the half-muffled, pillowy voice. "What is it?" "Oh, I forgot to tell you something that happened once--down in Indo-China," whispered little Eve Edgarton. "Once when you were away," she confided breathlessly, "I pulled a half-drowned coolie out of a canal." "Well, what of it?" asked her father a bit tartly. "Oh, nothing special," said little Eve Edgarton, "except that his skin was like yellow parchment! And sand-paper! And old plaster!" Without further ado then, she turned away, and, except for the single ecstatic episode of making the four hundred muffins for breakfast, resumed her pulseless role of being just--little Eve Edgarton. As for Barton, the subsequent morning hours brought sleep and sleep