Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (e book free reading TXT) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (e book free reading TXT) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
LIGHT O' THE MORNING The Story of an Irish Girl
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. — NORA.
CHAPTER II. — “SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO.”
CHAPTER III. — THE WILD MURPHYS.
CHAPTER IV. — THE INVITATION.
CHAPTER V. — “I AM ASHAMED OF YOU.”
CHAPTER VI. — THE CAVE OF THE BANSHEE.
CHAPTER VII. — THE MURPHYS.
CHAPTER VIII. — THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE.
CHAPTER IX. — EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS.
CHAPTER X. — THE INVITATION.
CHAPTER XI. — THE DIAMOND CROSS.
CHAPTER XII. — A FEATHER-BED HOUSE.
CHAPTER XIII. — “THERE'S MOLLY.”
CHAPTER XIV. — BITS OF SLANG.
CHAPTER XV. — TWO LETTERS.
CHAPTER XVI. — A CHEEKY IRISH GIRL.
CHAPTER XVII. — TWO DESCRIPTIONS.
CHAPTER XVIII. — A COMPACT.
CHAPTER XIX. — SHE WILL SOON TAME DOWN.
CHAPTER XX. — STEPHANOTIE.
CHAPTER XXI. — THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS.
CHAPTER XXII. — LETTERS.
CHAPTER XXIII. — THE BOX OF BON-BONS.
CHAPTER XXIV. — THE TELEGRAM,
CHAPTER XXV. — THE BLOW.
CHAPTER XXVI. — TEN POUNDS.
CHAPTER XXVII. — ADVENTURES—AND HOME AGAIN.
CHAPTER XXVIII. — THE WILD IRISH.
CHAPTER XXIX. — ALTERATIONS.
CHAPTER XXX. — THE LION IN HIS CAGE.
CHAPTER XXXI. — RELEASE OF THE CAPTIVE.
CHAPTER XXXII. — ANDY.
CHAPTER XXXIII. — THE CABIN ON THE MOUNTAIN.
CHAPTER XXXIV. — A DARING DEED.
CHAPTER XXXV. — THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN.
CHAPTER XXXVI. — “I'M A HAPPY MAN!”
CHAPTER I. — NORA.
“Why, then, Miss Nora—”
“Yes, Hannah?”
“You didn't see the masther going this way, miss?”
“What do you mean, Hannah? Father is never at home at this hour.”
“I thought maybe—” said Hannah. She spoke in a dubious voice, backing a little away.
Hannah was a small, squat woman, of a truly Irish type. Her nose was celestial, her mouth wide, her eyes dark, and sparkling with fun. She was dressed in a short, coarse serge petticoat, with what is called a bedgown over it; the bedgown was made of striped calico, yellow and red, and was tied in at the waist with a broad band of the same. Hannah's hair was strongly inclined to gray, and her humorous face was covered with a perfect network of wrinkles. She showed a gleam of snowy teeth now, as she looked full at the young girl whom she was addressing.
“Ah, then, Miss Nora,” she said, “it's I that am sorry for yez.”
Before Nora O'Shanaghgan could utter a word Hannah had turned on her heel.
“Come back, Hannah,” said Nora in an imperious voice.
“Presently, darlint; it's the childer I hear calling me. Coming, Mike asthore, coming.”
The squat little figure flew down a side walk which led to a paddock: beyond the paddock was a turnstile, and at the farther end of an adjacent field a cabin made of mud, with one tiny window and a thatched roof. Hannah was making for the cabin with rapid, waddling strides. Nora stood in the middle of the broad sweep which led up to the front door of the old house.
Castle O'Shanaghgan was a typical Irish home of the ancient régime. The house, a great square pile, was roomy and spacious; it had innumerable staircases, and long passages through which the wind shrieked on stormy nights, and a great castellated tower at its north end. This tower was in ruins, and had been given up a long time ago to the exclusive tenancy of the bats, the owls, and rats so large and fierce that the very dogs were afraid of them. In the tower at night the neighbors affirmed that they heard shrieks and ghostly noises; and Nora, whose bedroom was nearest to it, rejoiced much in the distinction of having twice heard the O'Shanaghgan Banshee keening outside her window. Nora was a slender, tall, and very graceful girl of about seventeen, and her face was as typical of the true, somewhat wild, Irish beauty as Hannah Croneen's was the reverse.
In the southwest of Ireland there are traces of Spanish as well as Celtic blood in many of its women; and Nora's quantities of thick, soft, intensely black hair must have come to her from a Spanish ancestor. So also did the delicately marked black brows and the black lashes to her dark and very lovely blue eyes; but the clear complexion, the cheeks with the tenderest bloom on them, the softly dimpled lips red as coral, and the little teeth white as pearls were true Irish characteristics.
Nora waited for a moment after Hannah had left her, then, shading her eyes from the westerly sun by one hand, she turned slowly and went into the house.
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