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. A Terrible Secret by May Agnes Fleming (world of reading txt) 📖
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- Author: May Agnes Fleming
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Charley said, "Love among the Roses." Mr. Darrell returned to Sandypoint. Mrs. Stuart, senior, took up her abode with Nellie Seton, pending such time as her children should get over the first delirium of matrimonial bliss and settle quietly down to housekeeping. After that it was fixed that she was to divide her time equally between them, six months with each. Charley and his wife would make England their home; Edith's ample fortune lay there, and both loved the fair old land.
In May they sailed for England. They would spend the whole of the summer in Continental travelling--the pleasant rambling life suited them well. But they went down to Cheshire first; and one soft May afternoon stood side by side in the old Gothic church where the Catherons for generations had been buried. The mellow light came softly through the painted windows--up in the organ loft, a young girl sat playing to herself soft, sweet, solemn melodies. And both hearts bowed down in tender sadness as they stood before _one_ tomb, the last erected within those walls, that of Sir Victor Catheron. Edith pulled her veil over her face--the only tears that had filled her eyes since her second wedding-day falling quietly now.
There were many remembrances of the dead man. A beautiful memorial window, a sombre hatchment, and a monument of snow-white marble. It was very simple--it represented only a broken shaft, and beneath in gold letters this inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR VICTOR CATHERON, of Catheron Royals, Bart.
DIED OCT. 3, 1867, in the 24th year of his age.
"_His sun set while it was yet day_."
THE END.
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In May they sailed for England. They would spend the whole of the summer in Continental travelling--the pleasant rambling life suited them well. But they went down to Cheshire first; and one soft May afternoon stood side by side in the old Gothic church where the Catherons for generations had been buried. The mellow light came softly through the painted windows--up in the organ loft, a young girl sat playing to herself soft, sweet, solemn melodies. And both hearts bowed down in tender sadness as they stood before _one_ tomb, the last erected within those walls, that of Sir Victor Catheron. Edith pulled her veil over her face--the only tears that had filled her eyes since her second wedding-day falling quietly now.
There were many remembrances of the dead man. A beautiful memorial window, a sombre hatchment, and a monument of snow-white marble. It was very simple--it represented only a broken shaft, and beneath in gold letters this inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR VICTOR CATHERON, of Catheron Royals, Bart.
DIED OCT. 3, 1867, in the 24th year of his age.
"_His sun set while it was yet day_."
THE END.
Imprint
Publication Date: 09-21-2009
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