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Bosom Friends A Seaside Story   By: (1868-1947)

Bosom Friends A Seaside Story by Angela Brazil

First Page:

Bosom Friends A Seaside Story

[Illustration: The namesakes (page 48).]


Bosom Friends A Seaside Story




I. Fellow travellers 5

II. Mrs. Stewart's Letter 21

III. A Meeting on the Sands 33

IV. The Sea Urchins' Club 48

V. A Hot Friendship 60

VI. On the Cliffs 75

VII. The "Stormy Petrel" 87

VIII. Cross purposes 108

IX. Silversands Tower 119

X. Wild Maidenhair 132

XI. The Island 144

XII. A First Quarrel 158

XIII. Reading the Runes 173

XIV. A Wet Day 187

XV. Tea with Mr. Binks 201

XVI. Belle's New Friend 217

XVII. The Chase 231

XVIII. Good bye 243




"Say, is it fate that has flung us together, We who from life's varied pathways thus meet?"

It was a broiling day at the end of July, and the railway station at Tiverton Junction was crowded with passengers. Porters wheeling great truckfuls of luggage strove to force a way along the thronged platform, anxious mothers held restless children firmly by the hand, harassed fathers sought to pack their families into already overflowing compartments, excited cyclists were endeavouring to disentangle their machines from among the piles of boxes and portmanteaus, a circus and a theatrical company were loud in their lamentations for certain reserved corridor carriages which had not arrived, while a patient band of Sunday school teachers was struggling to keep together a large party of slum children bound for a sea side camp.

The noise was almost unbearable. The ceaseless whistling of the engines, the shouts of the porters, the banging of carriage doors, the eager inquiries of countless perplexed passengers, made a combination calculated to give a headache to the owner of the stoutest nerves, and to drive timid travellers to distraction. All the world seemed off for its holiday, and the bustle and confusion of its departure was nearly enough to make some sober minded parents wish they had stayed at home.

Leaning up against the bookstall in a corner out of reach of the stream of traffic, clutching a basket in one hand and a hold all full of wraps and umbrellas in the other, stood a small girl of about ten or eleven years of age, her gaze fixed anxiously upon the great clock on the platform opposite. She was a pretty child, with a sweet, thoughtful little face, clear gray eyes, and straight fair hair, which fell over her shoulders without the least attempt at wave or curl. She was very simply and plainly dressed her sailor suit had been many times to the laundry, the straw hat was decidedly sunburnt, and her boots had evidently seen good service; but there was about her an indescribable air of refinement and good breeding that intangible something which stamps those trained from their babyhood in gentle ways which set her apart at once from the crowds of cheap trippers that thronged the station. From the eager glances she cast up and down the platform she appeared to be waiting for somebody, and she tried to beguile the time by watching the surging mass of tourists who hurried past her in a ceaseless stream. She had listened while the circus manager button holed the superintendent and excitedly proclaimed his woes; she had held her breath with interest when the slum babies, with their buns and brown paper parcels, were successfully bundled into the compartments reserved for them, and had craned her neck to catch a last glimpse as they steamed slowly out of the station, their small faces filling the windows like groups of cherubs, and their shrill little voices over topping all the other noise and din as they joined lustily in the chorus of a hymn... Continue reading book >>

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