That Girl of Johnson's — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. 127 dragged itself brokenly across the peaks of the mountains ; the hills were loud with the cry of the swollen river in the valley, and the cascades shouted aloud as they leaped the riven sides of the mountains to join the river and eat at the worn old bridge at the foot of the roadway. The wind had shifted, and blew soft and low over the mountain rising toward the west, wild with the shreds of the mist and the babble of the waters. Dolores sat at the window facing the mountain ; her eyes were on her father’s face, so hollow and weird in the shad- ows; her thoughts were on many things half betrayed by the wistful expression of the pure, pale face; her hands lay in her lap. The rain had ceased at last, and Dr. Dunwiddie, who also sat at the bedside, his eyes intent on the face of the girl, so grave and quiet in the light of the sunset, had raised the tiny window to let in the cool wind from the west, stealing down from the summit heavy with the scent from the pines and the odors of mold fresh watered. The clouds just above the distant peaks, parted in sudden relenting after three days and nights of interminable raining. and through the rent the setting sun flooded the summit tangled with shreds of mist and drooping boughs of the pines heavy with moisture, with a radiant glory that was dazzling. Dolores, as though roused by the sudden rush of the sunbeams, slowly raised her head and looked up to the radiant mountain. Her face was full in the light and touched with the roseate colors, flushed softly with the faintest trace of pink as an artist would color a rare paint- ing. Her sad, dark eyes grew soft and deeper in color, and her lips set close as in sorrow, slowly parted in one _ of her rare smiles, not seen on her face since that day when she heard of the trial to be held over in the town about the laming of the mare. As she turned her head the comb .- —an old-fashioned tortoise shell that had been her mother’s —suddenly slipped from the heavy coil of her hair which, Eomichoo cS (G0)