Elizabeth Jordan

“ Aunt Virginia, still on the piano-stool and facing her beloved keyboard, was quietly sorting some sheet music, and Mrs. Stewart had begun to wonder whether the new cook would be equal to making the waffles ordered for the evening meal. Nevertheless, they listened—but not as those hanging breathless on a narrative.
Olive's hero was a guileless young countryman who, having met a lady on a railroad train, imagined for one blissful day that he had found in her the realization of his dream, only to wake from that dream when the day was done. ”

“ Stewart when her older daughter was not with her, dropped now from her features like a discarded veil. She regarded her ewe lamb with an expression in her eyes which Olive would never see in any other eyes in the world, however many she looked into.
"Aren't you cold, dear?" she asked. "Come to the fire."
Olive dropped a kiss on her head as she passed, touched her father's shoulder with a tender hand, and sank into her favorite place on the hearth-rug before the huge open fireplace, in which several logs were blazing. She was still holding The Evening Banner with a desperate grip. ”

“ Her grandmother raised her eyes from her knitting to smile at her with gentle acquiescence. She would have smiled as gently and receptively if Olive had suggested a ghost-dance by the entire family, for the elder Mrs. Stewart took life calmly. Aunt Virginia turned from her piano with an audible sigh. Mr. Stewart, held fast by an article on the mysteries of high finance, had hardly heard his daughter's words. Olive fixed him with a compelling eye. ”

“ The Banner writers interested her only as amateurs in her own town, real flesh-and-blood women, whom she knew or at least had seen remotely on the streets. One of them had gone to New York to win wealth and fame, and those left behind pronounced her name with bated breath, and told one another anecdotes of her youth. It was understood in the Stewart home that some day, years hence, the name of Olive Stewart might adorn a Banner page, but it had not occurred to any one but Olive that she would make her début there at the ingenuous age of fifteen. ”

“ She sighed, turning the heel of the red stocking. Olive waited in anguish. Would they ignore the story altogether, after this diversion, or would they return to it if gently conducted?
"What did you think of the plot?" she asked, timidly.
"I don't see why people write such silly things nowadays," said her aunt. "There's enough going on around us all the time to make really interesting reading, if authors only knew it."
"I think it's a nice story," observed Josie, suddenly opening the eyes that had been closed in peaceful slumber for ten minutes, "’specially that about the dog." ”

“ Johnny Carroll would rush through the gate, throw The Banner against the front door, ring the bell, and rush off again; a maid would take in the newspaper and hand it to some member of the family, and the Greatest Secret in the World would be prematurely revealed, while the Most Beautiful Plan in the World perished before it was born. ”

“ For Olive knew, too, that it was not because his route or his list of patrons was lengthened that Johnny Carroll was late. It was because he had stopped to listen to a hand-organ, or watch the work on a new building, or chat with some friend, or even take part in an exciting game several of his chums happened to be playing on the sidewalk as he approached their homes. She had often seen him indulge in these diversions during the months before her personal interest in The Banner had waxed so strong ”

“ And Virginia here, who doesn't know anything about literature, anyway"—this with brotherly candor—"was thinking of the gentleman who's going to be your uncle, and I can prove it."
"I was, but I'd like to know how you knew it," remarked his sister, welcoming the little diversion.
"It's always a safe bet, at any time," her brother told her. "But to-night I know he's coming. While Olive was reading, you arranged the music you're going to play for him in a nice little pile. Isn't that it—the heap on the left?"
Miss Stewart laughed and admitted that it was. Olive wiped her eyes. ”

“ If—rare but possible occurrence—he happened to be more interested for the moment in his reading than in her, some of the colors of her iridescent dream would fade to neutral tints.
"Please listen, too, father," she pleaded; adding, with delicate tact: "You know, mother says you're the best critic in the family." ”

“ He stopped for a moment, his heart contracting under the expression in her brown eyes. "You find me a pretty truthful parent on the whole, don't you?" he added, when he could speak naturally.
Olive looked up at him as a patient ready for an operation might look at the surgeon she trusts.
"I don't believe you would tell a lie for anything in the world," she told him, with conviction.
"We-ell, that's saying a good deal." For an instant Mr. Stewart looked mildly embarrassed. "I don't know that I'd go that far," he added. "But take this from me as a fact. You're just a little beginner ”