Читать книгу The Daughter of a Soldier: A Colleen of South Ireland онлайн

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On this summer day, when the story opens, Maureen lay flat on her back and looked up, up, up, through the tall trees to the blue sky, which peeped down through the branches at her. She was lying on a nest of periwinkles, some white, some blue. There was clover within reach also, and butterflies were flying here, there, and everywhere. Maureen picked one or two periwinkles and watched the butterflies as they flew from flower to flower. But she was not really interested either in the butterflies or the flowers. She was listening intently to the song of the lark, piercing, high, and clear, as he soared up from his bed of earth to his heavenly home, until he looked a mere speck in the ethereal distance. Close to her were the missel-thrush and the blackbird, and the chirping, independent little Robin Redbreast, and a few swallows darting here and there. Yes, they were all about her, they were all around her, and they made this summer day the perfection of bliss.

An Irish terrier, by name Larry, with his rough coat of golden, tawny yellow, lay by her side. Now and then Maureen fondled him with her useful little hand—that hand which was so seldom idle, and was only idle now because she was a trifle anxious—only a trifle, but still, she did not feel quite herself, for undoubtedly things were happening and she did not know what they were. She wanted to know, but could not find out. She dreaded to ask, but she dreaded the reply still more.