It is said the Provincial Government
are about to take some steps in the matter."
Minnie read this account through to the end. She seemed to grow stiff,
and her eyes dilated with a nameless horror. She did not faint. That is
a privilege reserved for the heroines of the Seaside Library. This is
a very modest narrative of fact, and we could not afford so dramatic a
luxury as that. Minnie was a hearty country girl, and oatmeal repudiates
all affinity with hysterics.
Minnie read the article, threw down the paper, and rushed to her room.
She flung herself beside her bed. First of all, she didn't believe the
story. It was a foul lie. "What! Donald Morrison kill a man! Donald, my
lover, whom I have known since childhood--whose generous instincts I
have so often admired! Donald Morrison to redden his hands with the
blood of his fellow! Impossible, impossible! Oh, Donald, Donald," she
cried wildly, "say it isn't true; say it isn't true!"
She knelt over the bed, too deeply stricken for tears. After that
passionate prayer for denial--a prayer which is constantly ascending
from humanity, and which, asking for an assurance that the storm shall
not ravish the rose of life, has in it perhaps at bottom something of
selfishness--she remained motionless.
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