Beadle's Dime Novels No. 14 — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

MYSTERIOUS FEELINGS. . v7 his destruction. Some glamour was over his eyes; he rubbed them, arose, looked at his watch, and took up the morning “You've not much appetite this mornin’, Mr. Pennon.” “Not much; but it will increase, I assure you. The fault, certainly, is not in your cooking. Before I go away, you will have no reason to complain.” “It was very thoughtful of you, comin’ because of the steward’s hurting himself. Will you stop long this time, sir ?” “T hardly know. A week I shall stay, at all events. The gardens are full of gorgeous flowers ; every thing is very beau- tiful here still; and Ido not see why I should not stay. I believe I will set up my easel in the picture-gallery and paint something. I feel just like it.” “I trust you ‘ll conclude to do so, Mr. Pennon. It seems & great pity to have nobody here but me and the steward and the chore-boy, and all this great place lookin’ so splendid. The old master used to think the fall of the year the be&t part of it here. He was-mighty fond of the forests when they were all turned a-yellow, and of pickin’ up the autumn leayes —he liked the dahlias and crysanthemums, and all the fall flowers, sir. My! but he was a man of taste,—and I think you take after him, sir, by your ways. You've minded me of him many times. So you paint pictures, do you? Well said! Ill like to see something you do, sir; and the longer the master is at home, the better we'll all like it. I’m sorry you couldn’t eat no more breakfast, Mr. Pennon.” He thanked her for her interest, and strolled out of the breakfast-room into the garden upon which it opened. The September sun was still warm enough for out-door sitting, and he threw himself upon a seat, where the silver flash of a fountain filled his ear, and a thousand brilliant flowers met his eyes. He had the paper in his hand, but he did not read. A daily newspaper seemed as foreign to the scene as a modern advertisement would be, pasted across the forehead of the Egyp- tian Sphinx. There was a witchery in the soft, yellow sun- shine which wove about him like a cobweb. The present receded—time and place. It would not have surprised him to have ascertained that he was a thousand years old, and was dreaming away life in some splendid court of the Alhambra: ~ comiclbooks.com