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Playing With Fire By: Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (1831-1919) |
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BY AMELIA E. BARR AUTHOR OF "ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE," "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON," ETC.
"Truth is like water; the moment it stands it
stagnates; creeds are merely stagnant truth. "
ILLUSTRATED BY
HOWARD HEATH WILLIAM BRIGGS
TORONTO
1914 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Printed in the United States of America
WITH SINCERE RESPECT AND EVERY GOOD WISH
I INSCRIBE THIS NOVEL
TO
WILLIAM JOHN MATHESON, ESQ.
OF HUNTINGTON, LONG ISLAND [Illustration: "'Good bye, Richard!' she cried. 'Good bye, dearest of
all!'"]
CONTENTS
I. THE MINISTER'S FAMILY II. LORD RICHARD CRAMER III. DONALD PLEASES HIS FATHER IV. THE GREAT TEMPTATION V. THE MINISTER IN LOVE VI. DONALD TAKES HIS OWN WAY VII. MARION DECIDES VIII. MACRAE LEARNS A HARD LESSON IX. WHEN WILL THE NIGHT BE PAST? X. A DREAM XI. LOVE IS THE FULFILLING OF THE LAW XII. AFTERWARD
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Good bye, Richard!' she cried. 'Good bye, dearest of all!'" "There came again to her that singular sense of a past familiarity" "She smiled and laid her jeweled white hand confidingly on his" "The descent seemed steep and dark"
PLAYING WITH FIRE
CHAPTER I THE MINISTER'S FAMILY An high priest clothed with doctrine and with truth. ESDRAS I:
5:40.
Glasgow is the city of Human Power. It is not a beautiful city, but the
gray granite of which it is built gives it a natural nobility. There is
nothing romantic about its situation, and its streets are too often
steeped in wet, gray mist, or wrapped in yellowish vapor. But there are
no loungers in them. The crowd is a busy, hard working crowd, whose
civic motto is Enterprise and Perseverance. They made the river that
made the city, and then established on its banks those immense
shipbuilding yards, whose fleets take the river to the ocean, and the
ocean to every known port of the world. It is also a very religious city. Its inhabitants do not forget that
they are mortals, though no doubt mortals of a superior order, and the
number of churches they have built is amazing. It is impossible to walk
far in any direction without coming face to face with one. I am writing
of the midway years of the nineteenth century, when there was one church
among the many that all strangers were advised to visit. It was not the
Cathedral, nor the old Ram's Horn Kirk; it was a large, plain building,
called the Church of the Disciples. No one could find it to day, for it
stood upon a corner that became necessary to the trade of a certain
great street. Then the Church of the Disciples disappeared, and handsome
shops devoted to business of many kinds rose in its place. This church derived its fame from its minister, a very handsome man, of
great scholarly attainments and a preponderance of that quality we call
"presence." Even when at twenty three years of age he stepped from the
halls of St. Andrew's into the pulpit of the Church of the Disciples,
elders, deacons, and the whole congregation succumbed to his influence.
And when, after twenty one years of service, he made his dramatic exit
from that pulpit he still held his congregation in the hollow of his
hand. He was a Highlander of the once powerful house of Macrae; tall among his
brethren as was Saul among his people. His face was darkly handsome, and
made doubly attractive by a shadowy Celtic pathos. His eyes were
piercing but sad, his voice grand and resonant, suiting well the
wrathful, impassioned Calvinism of his sermons. For he was a Pharisee
of Pharisees touching every tittle of the law laid down by that troubler
of mankind called John Calvin. One evening in the beginning of June he went to his home after a rather
unimportant session with his elders. He had taken his own way as usual,
and was not in the least moved by the slight opposition he had been
compelled to silence... Continue reading book >>
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