At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

AT A GIRL’S MERCY. 69 Her face was set like stone as she arose and dressed. Day was creeping into her room in a dull gray light; it would be a stormy day, she knew : and she smiled still in that stony fashion, thinking how her life set in with the day—her life to end stormily in death. _ And how sorry her lover would be, she said to her- self—how very sorry he would be when he knew she was dead—dead in the warm flush of her life, with | the death of a dog to stain hermemory. But he would not blame her—yes, she was quite, quite sure he would not blame her for this that she had done. She had disobeyed his command, and he was not one to take such disobedience lightly, he had the fiery blood of his Spanish father in his veins, and he would not brook the crossing of his will; still she knew he would only be very, very sorry she was dead. The smile seemed to have frozen on her lips; it was set and terrible in its apathy. She seemed to have no feeling, to have gone out of herself, and thought pityingly of herself as of one she knew and could not help. It was very sad, she said, a young life shut out from the light of day and the throb and the passion of love by the cold touch of a bullet. And how would it feel when it should strike, and would she die at once or linger in anagony, as so many did—as so many of the soldiers were doing? Poor girl, poor girl! And she must stand aside and let it go on— this strange, sad ending of a life. She was sorry, very sorry, and what would the lover say—the lover whose name had somehow slipped her memory, but who was very tender with her and very generous to come back for her when n GEomichoo cS (E(@)