At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 132: what you’re looking at

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

7° AT A GIFL’S MERCY. 121 that he was angry with Mr. Blake for something she had not a doubt. She would not ask, but she would learn in her own way. Her father would tell her. He told her so many things that were of more im- portance than anything relating to Mr. Blake could possibly be. “You poor old papa,’’ she said hghtly, with a ten- der little iaugh, ‘‘why should you be angry with the horrid man when we have so much else to talk about? He was very nice tome. Why, he even offered me. any horse in his stable to ride if I wish. Isn’t that a piece of generosity on his part? And he was really very nice. Come, tell me more about the dreadful time you had yesterday, and forget Mr. Blake. I had so much rather hear.’’ But even as she said this she knew he would not talk to her about the riot, or any other thing while he was so roused. And she knew, too, that before long he would have told her all his trouble. He sat for some time in silence, the frown not leaving his brow, his lips shut close under the gray mustache, his eyes looking beyond his daughter, clouded in intensity of thought. Presently he roused himself as though to break the spell of unpleasant thought, and met the wide, questioning eyes of the girl at his feet, and smiled involuntarily. She patted his hand approvingly, and knew he would — not long keep her in the dark respecting this thought. ‘Tt seems to me as though the devil himself had hold of the reins of war,’’ he burst out presently, a flash in his eyes. ‘‘It is the devil’s own work that keeps it going, anyway. Beg your pardon, Nan, for my strong language, but I cannot contain myself when I think of what we need to end the war and Gomicboo (Eo) cS mn