"Evening had come on, and the bare boughs were etched black against a lemon-colored sky, which melted into orange where it kissed the horizon."
"The rosy glow in the west faded to ashen gray as the day burned itself out."
"Autumn followed, spreading its rich India carpet of leaves before the retreating footsteps of the dying year."
"Again the dawn swept up out of the sea, rosy and clear; she could see the pink light of a new day on the western walls of the passage."
"He labored under the oppressive aloofness begotten by sorrow, which endows even the most familiar objects with a strangeness borrowed from the new relation that we thenceforth bear to our dead selves. The old landmarks seemed to be obliterated by the torrents of his anguish and he felt no more of the balm he anticipated from a sense of homecoming than he might have experienced in entering any wayside tavern. His disease created a spiritual alienation from all things, and in his heart, like the Jewish lepers, he cried out perpetually, 'Unclean! unclean!' proclaiming his eternal separation from humanity."
"There were all sorts of half-fledged thoughts nestling in his heart as he strode out into the night."
"A sudden apprehension shook her, every overwrought nerve in her body seemed strained to listen; the wind had risen since dark, and was moaning in the chimney. She heard him fumble with the bolts; it seemed an age before the door flew open with a crash, and the storm rushed in whooping, making the candles flicker and starting the smouldering logs into a blaze. Some one was talking to the Captain in the hall; now the door closed, and she heard his quick step coming back alone. The presentiment of impending evil that had oppressed her all day now took the form of anxiety for her husband; her fear grew into an awful certainty of misfortune as she listened for the Captain's return. Could Gordon have been taken ill? Was there an accident on the journey? Could he even be dead? 'Oh God,' she prayed dumbly, 'not without saying good-bye,—not angry with me, and without good-bye!'"
Finally, the moral of the book is one that has the sanction of the father of Greek tragedy; it is the familiar adage that wisdom comes through suffering. The strongest feature of the story is its interest; I could hardly put it down before I had finished it. This interest, which is inspired by its intrinsic merit, is increased by the fact that it is the work of 'The Daughter of the Confederacy.' While it is not a great book, it is well worth reading.
Next came many unsigned essays for different journals,—a Christmas story for 'The World,' and a pretty one called 'Maiblume' for 'Arthur's Home Journal.' Then followed a comprehensive article on 'The Women of the South before the War,'—before she was born. Mrs. Davis gave her the material, and her beautiful, pure soul shed upon it the moonlight of idealism. The piece last mentioned, as well as a remarkable paper on her father's character as she saw it, was published by McClure's syndicate.
Miss Davis was unusually well-versed in Chinese history, as she had spent two years reading it because of her intention of writing a Chinese novel. On this account 'A Romance of Summer Seas' has so strong a vraisemblance that people thought the author had visited the scenes so vividly described. Her knowledge of the Chinese world is shown also in an article not yet published which has for its title, 'An Experiment in Chinese Money;' it was written at the time of the silver and gold contest.