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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"


It was an old story, of course, to Peter, who had the easy-chair
beside me, and so it was to Morris, who had helped Miss Felicia
carry out so Utopian a scheme, but it had come to me as a complete
surprise, and I was still wide-eyed and incredulous.
"And what keeps out the cold?" I asked Morris, who was lying back
blowing rings into the summer night, the glow of an overhead
lantern lighting up his handsome face.
"Glass," he laughed.
"Where?"
"There, just above the vines, my dear Major," interrupted Miss
Felicia, pointing upward. "Come and let me show you my frog pond--
"and away we went along the brick paths, bordered with pots of
flowers, to a tiny lake covered with lily-pads and circled by
water-plants.
"I did not want a greenhouse--I wanted a back yard," she
continued, "and I just would have it. Holker sent his men up, and
on three sides we built a wall that looked a hundred years old--
but it is not five--and roofed it over with glass, and just where
you see the little flight of stairs is the heat.


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