Maurice Francis Egan

The Ivy Hedge Maurice Francis Egan

Trevanion said. But 1now for the worst! He had not seen Mary Coyne since the day before the funeral of her father, except during those moments in the church and at the grave. She had been occupied by her mother and the children. He had only exchanged a few words with her about the practical side of the sad occasion which was the commonest thing in life; but, for all in this little group, it was most uncommon, most amazing, most unexpected. To them it seemed miraculous that the husband and father should die. This death appeared so wonderful, so out of the common, so earth-rending, that for the time he to whom Mary Coyne seemed all the world was as an alien; indeed, as he saw the daughter clasp the mother in a passion of love and sorrow, he felt that he must always be apart. There could be no love like this. It was an odd and unsatisfactory feeling for him. The worst was to come, he knew. There must occur the struggle between love and duty a duty in which love, as he had very lately discovered, held a great part. The family had come back to the little house in New Jersey, almost one of the suburbs of New York. Mr. Coyne had always boasted of this little house.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)

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