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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

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


It was not until he was nearing Corklesville that the sense of the
money really came to him. He knew what it would mean to Ruth and
what her eyes would hold of gladness and relief. Suddenly there
sprang to his lips an unbidden laugh, a spontaneous overflow from
the joy of his heart; the first he had uttered for days. Ruth
should know first. He would take her in his arms and tell her to
hunt in all his pockets, and then he would kiss her and place the
package in her hands. And then the two would go to Corinne. It
would be late, and she would be in bed, perhaps, but that made no
difference. Ruth would steal noiselessly upstairs; past where
Garry lay, the flowers heaped upon his coffin, and Corinne would
learn the glad tidings before to-morrow's sun. At last the ghost
which had haunted them all these days was banished; her child
would be safe, and Corinne would no longer have to hide her head.
Once more the precious package became the dominant thought. Ten
bonds! More than enough! What would McGowan say now? What would
his Uncle Arthur say? He slipped his hand under his coat fondling
the wrapper, caressing it as a lover does a long-delayed letter,
as a prisoner does a key which is to turn darkness into light, as
a hunted man a weapon which may save his life.


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