The Good Time Coming

The Good Time Coming

The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Good Time Coming, by T.S.
Arthur #27 in our series by T.S. Arthur
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Title: The Good Time Coming
Author: T.S. Arthur
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4632] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on February 20,
2002]
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THE GOOD TIME COMING.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
BOSTON: PHILADELPHIA:
1855.

PREFACE.
LIFE is a mystery to all men, and the more profound the deeper the
striving spirit is immersed in its own selfish instincts. How earnestly do
we all fix our eyes upon the slowly-advancing future, impatiently
waiting that good time coming which never comes! How fast the years
glide by, beginning in hope and ending in disappointment! Strange that
we gain so little of true wisdom amid the sharp disappointments that
meet us at almost every turn! How keenly the writer has suffered with

the rest, need not be told. It will be enough to say that he, too, has long
been an anxious waiter for the "good time coming," which has not yet
arrived.
But hope should not die because of our disappointments. There is a
good time coming, and for each one of us, if we work and wait for it;
but we must work patiently, and look in the right direction. Perhaps our
meaning will be plainer after our book is read.

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

CHAPTER I.

THERE was not a cloud in all the bright blue sky, nor a shadow upon
the landscape that lay in beauty around the lovely home of Edward
Markland; a home where Love had folded her wings, and Peace sought
a perpetual abiding-place. The evening of a mild summer day came
slowly on, with its soft, cool airs, that just dimpled the shining river,
fluttered the elm and maple leaves, and gently swayed the aspiring
heads of the old poplars, which, though failing at the root, still lifted,
like virtuous manhood, their greenest branches to heaven.
In the broad porch, around every chaste column of which twined
jessamine, rose, or honeysuckle, filling the air with a delicious
fragrance beyond the perfumer's art to imitate, moved to and fro, with
measured step and inverted thought, Edward Markland, the wealthy
owner of all the fair landscape spreading for acres around the elegant
mansion he had built as the home of his beloved ones.
"Edward." Love's sweetest music was in the voice that uttered his name,
and love's purest touch in the hand that lay upon his arm.
A smile broke over the grave face of Markland, as he looked down
tenderly into the blue eyes of his Agnes.
"I never tire of this," said the gentle-hearted