The Wreck of the South Pole and Other Strange Tales — page 132: what you’re looking at

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

Penelope. 125 dimly conscious that her aunt was making one of her quaint speeches to the old friend, and that Lord Richland was at her side claiming her hand for the next waltz, a scene flashed before her eyes which carried her back to childhood. There was a quiet stretch of beach and the ocean roll- ing up at her feet; in the background a tumbled-down house—her home—and she, herself, a bare-footed girl, playing with sand and waves, happy as the day was long. An artist, who consituted her world outside her home, sketching sea and land. She stopped to wonder if he re- membered a certain picture he drew once of a little gir] standing upon the shore and looking out over the sea. He had given it to her, and she had preserved it all these years. The memory of happy days upon the sunny beach sud- denly gave way to another. A room in the tumbled-down house, and in it a little girl tossing restlessly upon a bed and moaning in delirious fever. The village doctor stand- ing helplessly by; her poor old father crying quietly to himself. The artist enters the room and kneels by her bed. She seems at once to realize his presence. He takes her hand and speaks to her, lowly but earnestly. His voice recalls her from her wondering, as it had called her to him so many times before when wandering upon the beach. To-night the music of the dream-waltz they were playing seemed a fitting accompaniment to those words which were still ringing in her ears—‘“Do not worry any more, Helen; rest and be happy.” In all her ECORNIEOOOLKS (SO)