Number Thirty-Nine
The faint light of an early Summer dawn, more than a score of years ago, was just beginning to change the shadowy blackness of house and tree into gray outlines of even more weird and ghostly shape, as the door of a house in Frith street, New York, was softly opened from within, and a woman glided forth like a spirit, and, swiftly passing out, was almost in an instant lost to sight. If any lonely watcher at any window had seen her form, his recollection of it would have faded away as a dream fades before the light of a cloudless sunrise.
Slowly the gray sky melted into a paler gray; slowly the gray sky softened into pearly tints that in the far-off horizon were tinged with gold; slowly the golden halo stole all over the firmament, vanished into unfathomable depths of blue; and the great round sun, rising, flashed his beams from roof and steeple, then on inland stream and gay flowers, and it was day. The great city awoke. The footfall in the street ceased to echo, the distant tap of the patrol was heard no more. The rattle of cart and rail-car began to shake… Read More