The Widowed Bride — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

68 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. over again, and sat down to consider the exigencies of this new development of her hitherto somewhat monotonous life. Was it really true? Could it actuality be possible that M. Adolphe Lemaire was in love with her? Miss Cheriton retired early that night, with a ragiug headache, as she said; and Miss ‘Trowbridge, who happened to bein charge of the school-room, on that particular even- ing, looked at her crimson cheeks, and expressed her fears that Miss Cheriton was feverish. ‘‘Do let me call Miss Hartford to give you a little aco- nite,” she said, ‘‘or take a few drops of red lavender in ~ in water.” ‘“Nonsense,” said Adela, rudeiy. Miss Trowbridge was - stout, and short, and passee, and a dependent, forced to work hard for a living, and Miss Cheriton considered it quite superfluous to be polite to such people. ‘‘Ishan’tdo any such thing; I’m well enough, only for a headache, and — I wish you’d stop bothering!” So Adela went up stairs, but not to bed. Miss Hartford came to her room at ten o’clock, to enforce the regulation about the extinguishing of hghts in the sleeping apart- ments at that hour. ‘‘Dear Miss Hartford,” coaxed Adela, who was propped up in bed among her pillows, with a portfolio deftly hidden | under the sheet, and an ink-stand behind. the bed-post, ‘‘don’t please take away the light. I’m so nervous, and | — fancy all sorts of horrible things in the dark.” ‘‘T will send Miss Percival in to sleep with you, my dear,” argued the preceptress. : “Oh, don’t do that!” said Adela, shrugging one whit shoulder out of her ruffled night-dress, ‘‘she would drive me frantic! | must always be alone when I have these frightful headaches! Dear, kind Miss Hartford, do indulge me, just for once.” And Miss Hartford indulged her, and the letter, copied and recopied, was duly written and posted in the hollow of the moss-grown old cherry tree, by Adela’s own hand, the ext morning, , 3 Miss Cheriton blushed and fiuttered, and grew as tremu- lous as an aspen-leaf that day, when M. Lemaire bent over _her to correct a glaring mistake in her French composition. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but you do not comprehend,” “~ comicbooks . . - mS - a == ‘ = ~~