



Produced by Al Haines.


                                  Dawn
                             of the Morning


                                   BY
                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL


                               AUTHOR OF
                  MARCIA SCHUYLER, PHOEBE DEANE, ETC.



                                NEW YORK
                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                               PUBLISHERS

                  Made in the United States of America




                            COPYRIGHT, 1911
                      BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY




                          Wings of the Morning


    "The morning hangs its signal
      Upon the mountain's crest,
    While all the sleeping valleys
      In silent darkness rest;
    From peak to peak it flashes,
      It laughs along the sky
    That the crowning day is coming, by and by!
    We can see the rose of morning,
      A glory in the sky,
    And that splendor on the hill-tops
      O'er all the land shall lie.
    Above the generations
      The lonely prophets rise,--
    The Truth flings dawn and day-star
      Within their glowing eyes;
    From heart to heart it brightens,
      It draweth ever nigh,
    Till it crowneth all men thinking, by and by!
    The soul hath lifted moments
      Above the drift of days,
    When life's great meaning breaketh
      In sunrise on our ways;
    From hour to hour it haunts us,
      The vision draweth nigh,
    Till it crowneth living, _dying_, by and by!
    And in the sunrise standing,
      Our kindling hearts confess
    That 'no good thing is failure.
      No evil thing success!'
    From age to age it groweth,
      That radiant faith so high,
    And its crowning day is coming by and by!"

    WILLIAM C. GANNETT




                          Dawn of the Morning



                               CHAPTER I


In the year 1824, in a pleasant town located between Schenectady and
Albany, stood the handsome colonial residence of Hamilton Van
Rensselaer.  Solemn hedges shut in the family pride and hid the family
sorrow, and about the borders of its spacious gardens, where even the
roses seemed subdued, there played a child.  The stately house oppressed
her, and she loved the sombre garden best.

Her only friend in the old house seemed a tall clock that stood on the
stairs and told out the hours in the hopeless tone that was expected of
a clock in such a house, though it often took time to wink pleasantly at
the child as she passed by, and talk off a few seconds and minutes in a
brighter tone.

But the great clock on the staircase ticked awesomely one morning as the
little girl went slowly down to her father's study in response to his
bidding.

She did not want to go.  She delayed her steps as much as possible, and
looked up at the kindly old clock for sympathy; but even the round-eyed
sun and the friendly moon that went around on the clock face every