By Elia Wilkinson Peattie
Elia Wilkinson Peattie was once a prolific fiction author who distinct her stories as a lady within the West in dozens of essays, brief tales, and novels. In "A Mountain Woman," Peattie offers us the interesting story of a cosmopolitan ny urban architect who marries a country yet eminently functional lady from the mountains of Colorado and brings her again to the East to mingle with excessive society. [C:\Users\Microsoft\Documents\Calibre Library]
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Extra resources for A Mountain Woman
David drugged himself on dreams. He knew it was weakness, but it was the wine of forgetfulness, and he indulged in it. He went over and over, in endless repetition, every scene in which Zoe Le Baron had figured. He learned by a paper that she had gone to Europe. He was glad of that. For there were hours in which he imagined that his fate might have caused her distress -- not much, of course, but perhaps an occasional hour of sympathetic regret. But it was pleasanter not to think of that. He pre- ferred to remember the hours they had spent together while she was teaching him the joy of life.
He was going to the little chapel where the mission school had previously been held. Here was a rude pulpit, and back of it a much-disfigured virgin, dressed in turkey- red calico. Two cheap candles in their tin sticks guarded this figure, and beneath, on the floor, was spread an otter-skin of perfect beauty. The seats were of pine, without backs, and the wind whistled through the chinks between the logs. Moreover, the place was dirty. Lenten service had been out of the question. The living had neither time nor strength to come to worship; and the dead were not given the honor of a burial from church in these times of terror.
It was hours before Catherine rewarded them with a gleam of consciousness. Her body had been frozen in many places. Her arms, outstretched over her children and holding the clothes down about them, were rigid. But consciousness came at length, dimly struggling up through her brain; and over her she saw her friends rubbing and rubbing those strong firm arms of hers with snow. She half raised her head, with a horror of comprehension in her eyes, and listened. A cry answered her, -- a cry of dull pain from the baby.