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Hope Mills: or, Between Friend and Sweetheart
Hope Mills; Or, Between Friend and Sweetheart
"Abou spake more low,
But cheerly still; and said, 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'"Leigh Hunt.
TO
Hon. Marcus L. Ward,
As a Tribute
TO ONE WHO HAS HELD LOYALLY TO GOD AND HIS FELLOW-MEN,
WHO HAS LABORED IN THE NOBLE CAUSE OF HUMANITY,
NOT DISHEARTENED WHEN RESULTS WERE INFREQUENT,
BUT CONTENT TO REAP THE REWARD
IN THE GREAT HEREAFTER
CHAPTER I
"There is Fred again with his arm around Jack Darcy's neck. I declare, they are worse than two romantic schoolgirls. I am so thankful Fred goes away to-morrow for a year! and I do hope by that time he will have outgrown that wretched, commonplace youth. Mother, it is very fortunate that Jack is the sole scion of the Darcy line; for, if there were a daughter, you would no doubt be called upon to receive her into the bosom of the family."
"Which I never should do," remarked quiet, aristocratic Mrs. Lawrence, not even raising her eyes from her book.
"Not for the sake of your only son?" continued Agatha, with an irritating laugh.
"Don't be silly, Agatha," returned the mother, with an indifference that took off the point of the query.
Her second sister glanced up from a bit of pencil-drawing, then lowered her eyes to the street where the boy friends stood, one with his arm over the other's shoulder.
"Think of a Harvard graduate arm-in-arm with – well, a mill-hand! No doubt Jack's father will put him in the mill. I cannot see any sense in a boy of that class taking two years at the academy."
On the opposite side of the room were two girls, hardly more than children, busily engaged in ornamenting a box with transfer-pictures. One had a rather haughty mien, as became a Lawrence; the other, pretty, piquant little Sylvie Barry, looked toward the elders, knit her brow, with both thought and indignation visible in its lines, and held her picture absently in her hand.
"Why do you listen to that?" asked Irene Lawrence disdainfully. "It is only Jack Darcy, and he's nobody. His father works in the mill."
"I know that!" was Sylvie's rather sharp retort, answering the latter part of the sentence merely. Child as she was, she experienced a strong desire to do battle, not only for Jack, but for some puzzling cause she could not quite comprehend. With the blood of a French duke in her veins, of soldiers and martyrs as well, she was a sturdy little democrat. It seemed cowardly not to take up arms.
"That butterfly is to go next," remarked Irene, reaching out for it; and Sylvie held her peace, though she felt the warm blood burning in her cheeks.