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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"


There was no one else I cared very much about leaving, but the love of
locality was a strong feature in my disposition, and every room in my
father's house was dear to me, as was every book in his study, and every
plant in our deep-green, shadowed garden.
The very streets were sacred in my sight, that I had trodden from
childhood, but my liberty was more precious to my heart than scenes of
old associations, and to gain one the other must be sacrificed. There
was no hesitating now: I was on the tread-mill of fate, and must
proceed, or fall and be crushed beneath.
And here again I repeat, what I have said so recently: "On what slight
pivots our destiny often turns!--through what small channels Providence
works its wondrous ways!"
A pair of shoes had been sent home for me that day, which still lay on
the table, wrapped and corded. In truth, they came very opportunely; "I
shall want these soon," I thought, as I examined the strong and elastic
bootees, which had been made for me in view of my morning walks, a part
of dear Dr. Pemberton's regimen, which I strenuously and advantageously
carried out.
As I spoke, the paper in which they had been enveloped rustled down on
the floor by my side. I stooped, languidly, to pick it up, merely from a
sense of order, and my eye fell on a long column, headed "Wanted," and,
almost for lack of resolution to withdraw it, wandered down its
paragraphs, step by step.


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