Explore "A Tragedy of Love and Hate" by Bertha M. Clay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It seemed as though the sun loved her, for it had never shone so bright or so warm as when it peeped into her chamber to wake my lady on her birthday. The flowers loved her, for they bloomed fresher, sweeter, more fragrantly that morning than they had ever done before. Surely the sweet songbirds knew it, for the music that rose through the clear, sweet summer air was never so jubilant and clear.
The sunshine and the song of the birds awoke her, and her maid was already standing there, her arms filled with fragrant bouquets, roses with dewdrops gleaming on them, rich crimson leaves, lilies, whose white cups were moist and fair; but the loveliest bouquet there had been sent by Sir Ronald.