Frank Richard Stockton

The House of Martha


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FANTASY?

       XXX.

       A DISCOVERY.

       XXXI.

       TAKING UP UNFINISHED WORK.

       XXXII.

       TOMASO AND LUCILLA.

       XXXIII.

       THE DISTANT TOPSAIL.

       XXXIV.

       THE CENTRAL HOTEL.

       XXXV.

       MONEY MAKES THE MARE GO.

       XXXVI.

       IN THE SHADE OF THE OAK.

       XXXVII.

       THE PERFORMANCE OF MY UNDER-STUDY.

       XXXVIII.

       A BROKEN TRACE.

       XXXIX.

       A SOUL WHISPER?

       XL.

       AN INSPIRATION.

       XLI.

       MISS LANISTON.

       XLII.

       THE MOTHER SUPERIOR.

       XLIII.

       WAS HIS HEART TRUE TO POLL?

       XLIV.

       PRELIMINARY BROTHERHOOD.

       XLV.

       I MAKE COFFEE AND GET INTO HOT WATER.

       XLVI.

       GOING BACK FOR A FRIEND.

       XLVII.

       I INTEREST MISS LANISTON.

       XLVIII.

       IN A COLD, BARE ROOM.

       XLIX.

       MY OWN WAY.

       L.

       MY BOOK OF TRAVEL.

       LI.

       A LOOSE END.

       LII.

       I FINISH THE SICILIAN LOVE-STORY.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      My grandmother sat in her own particular easy-chair by the open window of her back parlor. This was a pleasant place in which to sit in the afternoon, for the sun was then on the other side of the house, and she could look not only over the smooth grass of the side yard and the flower beds, which were under her especial care, but across the corner of the front lawn into the village street. Here, between two handsome maple-trees which stood upon the sidewalk, she could see something of what was going on in the outer world without presenting the appearance of one who is fond of watching her neighbors. It was not much that she saw, for the street was a quiet one; but a very little of that sort of thing satisfied her.

      She was a woman who was easily satisfied. As a proof of this, I may say that she looked upon me as a man who always did what was right. Indeed, I am quite sure there were cases when she saved herself a good deal of perplexing cogitation by assuming that a thing was right because I did it. I was her only grandchild: my father and mother had died when I was very young, and I had always lived with her—that is, her house had always been my home; and as I am sure there had never been any reason why I should not be a dutiful and affectionate grandson, it was not surprising that she looked upon me with a certain tender partiality, and that she considered me worthy of all the good that she or fortune could bestow upon me.

      My grandmother was nearly seventy, but her physical powers had been excellently well preserved; and as to her mental vigor, I could see no change in it. Even when a little boy I had admired her powers of sympathetic