Beadle's Dime Novels No. 14 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

RACHEL AT THE WELL. 7 that I may be able. to sketch yonder hills in the mist and pur- ple shadows of the morning.” “Tf you have walked all the way from Greenville to-day, you will indeed not feel like returning there this evening. My mother is in ‘the house, and papa will soon be here; I presume they will be glad to welcome you. Walk in, sir.” She spoke with as much ease as simplicity. He was charmed with her manner and with her beauty. Both were peculiar, and not of the strictly fashionable mold, but refined, and, he thought, much more exquisite. They had the fresh- ness and sweetness of nature, as if all the quiet and yet glorious loveliness of the scenery about her had made their impression upon mind and expression. She stooped to lift the bucket to its place; and as she did so her dark brown hair swept in heavy curls down her vermil cheeks, and floated upon the breeze. Pennon thought of Rachel, and wished mentally that he was Jacob. Then he blushed slightly to think that he had already dreamed of kissing that innocent mouth, and re- proved himself for his guilt. * Jacob was sent by his father to claim Rachel, and, being a relative, he fad a right to kiss her, I suppose. But this maiden’s lips I will not profane by a thought.” | “Clematis !” called some one from the house. “My mother is waiting for the water.” He took the bucket from her hand, emptied its contents into the tin pail she had brought, and carried it for her into the house. There he met a fine-looking woman, still fresh and fair, not quite as delicate as her daughter, but with the dignity and cordiality of an old-fashioned lady. He made his apolo- gies for intruding so handsomely, and his looks seconded his words so well, that she was not displeased to extend her hos- pitalities to him, though that she would have done to the humblest, for the stone house had sheltered many a forlorn one for more than one night. And here we will vouch for the truth of his statements by giving the reader a glimpse at our hero, as he sat in his city boarding-house, only four days previous to this, thinking how poor was Mrs. Butterby’s best, for which he paid ten dollars a week, compared with “country cream,” carpets of grass and flowers, fresh boiled chickens, new-laid eggs, glorious sunsets, comiliclbooks.com