At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 134: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AT A GIRLT’S MERCY, 123 was thinking of just that as she seated herself upon the sill of the tiny house and spread the flowers she had gathered in her lap to choose one by one for her bouquet. Her smooth, soft brows were puckered in an exaggerated frown as she laid the morning’s paper on the floor beside her and proceeded to rest before beginning upon the flowers. It was unusually warm, with scarce a lifting of the leaves under the faint breeze from the southern slope. She removed her broad white hat, letting it slip down her shoul- ders to the floor. She ran her slim fingers through her hair to lift it and cool her head. She sighed deeply as though to be rid of the oppressive ozone and leave space for new. And leaning her fair head against the dcor-post, she let her hands lie among the loose flowers and her thoughts wander at will with her eyes bent on the hazy slope out yonder toward the south. She was somehow growing braver to open the damp sheet as it was brought in to her at breakfast, and had so far seen nothing to terrify her excepting the natural sadness one would feel at the account of such battles as were being fought. This morning she had left the paper to be read in the cooler summer-house, though she had glanced down the long columns to catch any name that might mean sorrow to her, but she had seen nothing, and was singing to herself a low air as she leaned—her thoughts not én her song—under the shadow of the roses, with the carnations and blue bells lying in her lap for her pleasure. She was feeling rather tired, too, for the excitement and worry of the past day and night had told upon her sunny temper, and she simply longed to rest there in the garden that the boys had always loved, and where her friend had pidden her farewell with a tender thought of her fu- Gomicbooks (e(e) m