Now it's only fifty-nine.

Now it's fifty-eight--just like the song 'Ten little, nine little, eight little Indians.' Pretty soon there'll just be one minute left." At this exciting thought the queer quivery feeling inside was so strong it almost choked her.

Her heart gave a great thump when Joyce finally called, "Here we are," and Rob signalled the conductor to stop outside the great entrance gate.
"The Locusts" at last.

Pewees in the cedars and robins on the lawn; everywhere the cool deep shadows of great trees, and wide stretches of waving blue-grass.

Stately white pillars of an old Southern mansion gleamed through the vines at the end of the long avenue.