All that night I tossed about on my uncomfortable feather-bed, or
rather, when I found I could not sleep, I rose after a time, and wrapped
in my dressing-gown, I sat by my tiny window, watching the shadows of
the wind-blown locust-boughs on the moonlit grass below, full of the
dreams which are the stuff that romances are made of, and which, though
I had often used them as "material," I had never known myself before;
shy and tender dreams they were, that glorified that summer night, and
kept me wakeful until dawn.
The next day and the next I was ill and feverish, so ill that I could
not rise. Mr. Longworth brought for me great bunches of choice flowers,
for which he must have sent Wilson to the next town of New Sidon, and a
dainty basket of fruit. The third day I rose and dressed toward noon,
and weak as I felt, I decided to walk down to the post-office, for I
thought perhaps the air would do me good, and beside, the mail was never
brought up until after dark, and I longed to find if Mr. ---- had
written me as I expected, about the manuscript. I knew he would be very
prompt with me.
I found several letters in the box for me, and eagerly scanning the
envelopes, I discovered the well-known buff tint, with the red device of
a female figure with a book clasped to the breast, that is the livery
of "----'s Magazine.
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