At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 142: what you’re looking at

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

AT A GIRLS MERCY. 131. was nothing in life, that the song of even the birds sounded harsh to her, and she could not cry. The birds were singing, and she wished she might stop them. They kept saying over and over go many strange things. There was the sunshine and the wind coming up,from the south from over the clover, and she could feel it touch her face as though it were sorry for her. She did not like to be pitied, but she had no power to help it. What would her father say when he came home at night? Would he pity her, too, and say ‘“‘poor little girl,’? as she would not want him to. Perhaps there was something in the paper that would help to soften her feeling. She opened the sheet, and found the place where How- ard Blake had pointed out the notice. She read it and re-read it. They spoke in high terms of. his bravery and loyal spirit. They could not do less. He was brave and loyal to friends as well as to his country, and why should they not say it of him when he was dead? When he was dead! She could not quite understand. This dreadful feeling of stoni- ness seemed to harden all her powers of thought. But he must be dead—Ned, her old playfellow, her old defender, her champion at all times, her more than friend now—Ned was dead. It seemed so strange to think of it. She could see that he was dead. There it wasin black and white. He had died in a grand charge at a moment when hesitation would have meant defeat, and had carried the day with great honor, but had fallen at the last. No doubt Helen was with him. She could not only suffer, but she could go on doing something for those who suffered and died on the field. If she were Helen she would be brave, too. Why, surely she could do almost anything and stand any strain upon EComicboo cS (E()