Marcia Schuyler

Grace Livingston Hill

Marcia Schuyler by Grace Livingston Hill

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Title: Marcia Schuyler
Author: Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
Release Date: August 2007 [Ebook #23132]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO 8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARCIA SCHUYLER***

Marcia Schuyler
by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz

Edition 1, (August 2007)

MARCIA SCHUYLER
SIXTH EDITION

[Illustration: Copyright by C. Klackner "OH, YOU NAUGHTY MAN!" SHE EXCLAIMED PRETTILY, "HOW DARE YOU!"]
Copyright by C. Klackner "OH, YOU NAUGHTY MAN!" SHE EXCLAIMED PRETTILY, "HOW DARE YOU!"

Marcia Schuyler
by
Grace Livingston Hill Lutz Author of "The Story of a Whim," "According to the Pattern," "An Unwilling Guest," etc.
Illustrations by E. L. HENRY, N.A.
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS �� NEW YORK

Copyright, 1908 By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published February, 1908
Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF MY FATHER The Rev. CHARLES MONTGOMERY LIVINGSTON WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP AND ENCOURAGEMENT HAVE BEEN MY HELP THROUGH THE YEARS

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX
AD PAGES ERRATA

Marcia Schuyler
CHAPTER I
The sun was already up and the grass blades were twinkling with sparkles of dew, as Marcia stepped from the kitchen door.
She wore a chocolate calico with little sprigs of red and white scattered over it, her hair was in smooth brown braids down her back, and there was a flush on her round cheeks that might have been but the reflection of the rosy light in the East. Her face was as untroubled as the summer morning, in its freshness, and her eyes as dreamy as the soft clouds that hovered upon the horizon uncertain where they were to be sent for the day.
Marcia walked lightly through the grass, and the way behind her sparkled again like that of the girl in the fairy-tale who left jewels wherever she passed.
A rail fence stopped her, which she mounted as though it had been a steed to carry her onward, and sat a moment looking at the beauty of the morning, her eyes taking on that far-away look that annoyed her stepmother when she wanted her to hurry with the dishes, or finish a long seam before it was time to get supper.
She loitered but a moment, for her mind was full of business, and she wished to accomplish much before the day was done. Swinging easily down to the other side of the fence she moved on through the meadow, over another fence, and another meadow, skirting the edge of a cool little strip of woods which lured her with its green mysterious shadows, its whispering leaves, and twittering birds. One wistful glance she gave into the sweet silence, seeing a clump of maiden-hair ferns rippling their feathery locks in the breeze. Then resolutely turning away she sped on to the slope of Blackberry Hill.
It was not a long climb to where the blackberries grew, and she was soon at work, the great luscious berries dropping into her pail almost with a touch. But while she worked the vision of the hills, the sheep meadow below, the river winding between the neighboring farms, melted away, and she did not even see the ripe fruit before her, because she was planning the new frock she was to buy with these berries she had come to pick.
Pink and white it was to be; she had seen it in the store the last time she went for sugar and spice. There were dainty sprigs of pink over the white ground, and every berry that dropped into her bright pail was no longer a berry but a sprig of pink chintz. While she worked she went over her plans for the day.
There had been busy times at the old house during the past weeks. Kate, her elder sister, was to be married. It was only a few days now to the wedding.
There had been a whole year of preparation: spinning and weaving and fine sewing. The smooth white linen lay ready, packed between rose leaves and lavender. There had been yards and yards of tatting and embroidery made by the two girls for the trousseau, and the village dressmaker had spent days at the house, cutting, fitting, shirring, till now there was a goodly array of gorgeous apparel piled high upon bed, and chairs, and hanging in the closets of the great spare bedroom. The outfit was as fine as that made for Patience Hartrandt six months before, and Mr. Hartrandt had given his one daughter all
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