Beadle's Dime Novels No. 3: Myra, the Child of Adoption — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

THE DREAM—SUSPICION. 81 and walked on. With her own hands she mailed the letter which conveyed, as it were, her soul to the husband who seemed to have forgotten her. A sigh broke up from her heart as the folded paper slid from her hand into the yawning mail-bag, and then, with a feeling of relief born of her own exertions, she turned away. “T have trusted no one; he will get my letter now,” she murmured over and over again during her rapid walk home, and with that vivid reaction so common to imaginative na- tures, she became almost happy in the sweet hopes that this reflection aroused to life again. Oh, it is so difficult for the young to feel absolute despair or absolute resignation ; both are the fruit of good or evil old age. Unmolested, as she had left it, Zulima stole back to her chamber. Weary, and yet with a heart more free than it had been for weeks, she flung off her damp garments, and lying down, slept sweetly for an hour. Zulima dreamed that she was sitting with her husband beneath the great magnolia- tree; her babe lay upon the turf laughing gleefully, and, with its little hands in the air, grasping after the summer insects as they flashed overhead. All at once a whirlwind rushed out, as it were, from the depths of the sky, overwhelming her with its violence. She strove to reach her child, but fell upon her face to earth, shrieking wildly to her husband to save her and it. | Ther fell upon her one of those dark, fantastic clouds — ake our dreams so fragmentary. She felt the magnolia u ve under her, and scatter down the fresh earth from its she was half buried. Husband and child both were gone, leaving her prostrate and almost dead, to bat- tle her way through the storm alone—alone! Zulima awoke with these words upon her lips. It was but a dream. Louisa had entered the chamber and was examining the wet garments that her mistress had flung off, muttering suspiciously to herself as ‘she saw the soiled slippers and other evidences of an early walk. “What am de meaning ob all dis? What can de missus be about ?” she muttered, casting down the raiment that had excited her distrust. The candle almost burned out, the drops of wax on the table, torn fragments of paper on the floor, were new objects of comment, The torn paper was all writ- & Ccomichbooks.conn