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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sapphire Cross, by George Manville Fenn This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Sapphire Cross Author: George Manville Fenn Release Date: June 20, 2010 [EBook #32917] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAPPHIRE CROSS *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Book 1, Chapter I. IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. "Oh, how sweet the pines smell, Marion! I declare it's quite bliss to get down here in these wilds, with the free wind blowing the London smoke out of your back hair, and no one to criticise and make remarks. I won't go to the sea-side any more: pier and band, and esplanade and promenade; in pink to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next day in green; and then a bow here and a `de-do' there; and `how's mamma?' and `nice day;' and all the same sickening stuff over again. There! I won't hear fault found with the Fen-land ever any more. I don't wonder at that dear old Hereward the Wake loving it. Why, it's beautiful! and I feel free--as free as the air itself; and could set off and run and jump and shout like a child?" "Dangerous work, running and jumping here," said a tall, pale girl, the speaker's companion, as she picked her way from tuft to tuft of heath and rushes, now plucking a spray of white or creamy-pink moss, now some silky rush, and at last bending long over a cluster of forget-me-nots, peering up from the bright green water plants, like turquoise set in enamelled gold. "What lovely forget-me-nots!" cried her blonde companion, hurrying to her side, the oozy ground bending beneath her weight, as she pressed forward. "True blue--true blue! I must have a bunch as well." "Poor Philip's favourite flowers," said the other, sadly. "I have the little dried bouquet at home now that he gave me--six years ago this spring, Ada. Forget-me-not!" She stood, sad and thoughtful, with the flowers in her hand, the tears the while dropping slowly upon the little blue petals, that seemed like eyes peering up at her. They were standing together upon the edge of a wide stretch of uncultivated marsh, which commenced as soon as the grove of whispering pines through which
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