At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

AT A GIRI’S MERCY. 43 Nan and her father were sitting in the library, the girl listening with interest to her father’s account of the day’s doings in the city, the long account in the papers of the daring burglary in the very out- skirts of the city—an exciting account even in the midst of the war columns—Nan, sitting at the Squire’s feet, her soft fingers now and then caress- ing the other’s wrinkled hand, the hearts of each filed with anxiety for the dear mother in the hushed room above, from which they were excluded—the butler suddenly announced Miss Travers, and Nan sprang up with a glad cry, her hands outstretched to the tall, slender girl in the door-way. “This is so like you, Helen,’ she said, lifting her red mouth for the caress of her friend. ‘Your very last night at home to give tous. You’re the dearest girl, Isn’t she, papa?’ The new-comer laughed softly, the beautiful hazel eyes darkening with pleasure as she stooped, her hands on Nan’s shoulders, to kiss the dainty lady before her. “Don’t help to humiliate me, Mr. Courtland, by professed belief in my goodness. It was pure selfish- ness on my part. Do you think I could go away without a good-by from my girl?’’ “You have come to a sad home, Helen,” the squire said, with a warm pressure of her hand, though there was no smile on his lips. “‘But how few homes are not sad now.”’ “Ves,” the girl said, and the eyes lifted to his grave face were tender with sympathy. ‘“‘Warisa terrible thing, Mr. Courtland, and the worst is the suspense—the waiting for what we cannot know, the inability to end it by just our own efforts. War claims the whole country, and the country must do Eomichooks m