“So I lost David,” whispered Mary Cecily; “I lost my little brother.”

Frontispiece

“I an artist? Mercy, no,” said Azalea. “I’m nothing—just a girl.”

64

There was Paralee, dragging a gaunt woman to the door. “Tell ’em to ’light, ma, and come in,” she begged

166

Keefe lifted a languid hand. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time,” he said

230