Beadle's Dime Novels No. 142: The Sagamore of Saco — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

20 JHE SAGAMORE OF Saco. herself into her father’s arms, and burst into a wild torrent of sobs and tears. The family were used to these sudden transitions of feeling upon her part, but this seemed a mood so much more painful than ordinary, that all were shocked. “ Do not let my cold, stil sisters look at me, papa,” whis pered Hope. Then, lifting up her head, she added, solemnly : ' “ Papa, you will soon have no little Hope.” The knight shuddered, and pressed the poor child more tenderly to his heart. “ Fell me why, little daughter !” “ Every little while, dear father, I see poor, pale-faced Tope standing before me, looking sad, and oh! so weary, and wring- ing ber hands.” Mr. Vines certainly felt a cold chill run over him at this description. . She went on. “ This morning I saw Hope seated on the ledge yonder, her hands to her face, and she weeping, weeping. Mistress Bonyton, too, told me that this little purple spot upon my shoulder, which you used to kiss, papa, when I was a little girl, is the devil’s mark, and called me a witch.” Sir Richard arose hastily from his seat and whispered a few words in the ear of his wife. A new cause for anxiety had been suggested by the words of Mistress’ Bonyton, for at that time the old world was convulsed by stories of possession and witchcraft, and it was no light thing to have the aspersiun cast upon an individual that he or she might be a witch. At this moment the sharp whiz of an arrow passed the lattice. Hope darted from the room, and seated herself at an upper loop-hole, where she could see without being seen. She watched John Bonyton where hour after hour he traversed the slip of sand which separated the Pool from the ocean, ever and anon sending uneasy glances toward the mansion. Day after day passed, and Hope went no more abroad, nor did she send any token to her impatient lover, Day after day John Bonyton wandered along the shore, as if its impatient turbulence best responded to the wild passions that consumed him. The dirge of the sea, creeping amid the weeds that cushioned the rocks, and then hurrying from point to point in Stifled sobs—anon lifting incoherent voices to storm the ear . Comicbookszcom