The Storm Centre by Mary Noailles Murfree — Read

After the escape of Julius Roscoe time held to a tranquil pace in the placidities of the storm centre. The rose-red dawns burst into bloom and the days flowered whitely, full of fragrance and singing birds, of loitering sunshine and light-winged breezes. One by one the still noons glowed and glistered, expanding into summer radiance, and dulled gradually to the mellow splendors of the sunset. Then fell the serene dusk, blue on the far-away mountains, violet nearer at hand, with a white star in the sky, and a bugle's strain leaping into the air like a thing of life, a vivified sound. And all the panorama of troops, and forts, and camps, and cannon might be some magnificent military spectacle, so remote seemed the war -- so unreal. Every morning the "ladies" wrought at their lessons in the library, and Leonora cut their small summer garments and helped the seamstress, who came in by the day, to sew. Despite these absorptions Mrs. Gwynn managed to find leisure to read aloud to Judge Roscoe his favorite old novels, and essays, and dull antiquated histories. She evolved subjects of controversy on which to argue with him, and was facetious and found occasion to call him "Your Honour" oftener than heretofore. For he had grown old suddenly; his step had lost its elasticity; he looked up a cane that had once been presented to him by some fraternity; his hair was turning white and -- worst sign of all -- he was not sorry to be approaching the end.

"The night is long, and the day is a burden," he once said.