An un-finished, juvenile work, published after the author's death.
his wife, a delicate, refined, fair little woman who reclined on the sofa--his son, handsome and bright-eyed, and now home for the holidays--and two little Dutch girls, grey-eyed, yellow-haired, pudding-faced, who were here to share with his step-daughter the instruction of the very stiff and upright individual who sat on a chair near the door. This individual wore three curls on each side of her head and carried a large wart on the tip of her chin.
"Late for prayers again, Undine," she said, as the owner of the little blue pinafore slipped in at the door and took her way to the nearest seat.
No one else took any notice of her entrance, and the chapter being finished they kneeled down to pray. Undine did not listen to the prayer but to the great red clock overhead, that was ticking away such solemn words, the child thought, as she bent below it:
"Another week gone, another day gone. What have you done? We never come back, we moments; we fly, but we never return, never, never, tick, tick.
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