Explore "The White Glove" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was no house that Madeline came to at length, but a deserted barn with a dilapidated sign-post on the left hand minus an arm and decorated by some rustic wag with a broken birch broom. Madeline recognised it with a thrill of gratitude. The broom had been there ever since she could remember, and it told her that she was not far from the right track as she had imagined. To the right was a deep, rutty path, and once she gained that she could go right along to her father's lodge gates.
She struck the path without further trouble, and the shaking limbs grew firm and steady again.