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"God!" he yelped, "that's where that axe went! Tobey took it!" More calmly he proceeded, "This afternoon before I went down on the beach I thought I'd chop some wood on the hill. But the axe was gone. So after I'd looked sharp for it and couldn't find it, I gave it up." "Tobey didn't do it!" Mrs. Brenner cried thinly. "He's as harmless as a baby! He didn't do it! He didn't do it!"
She returned their caresses with words of mother love, tears shining in her eyes at the thought that this might prove almost her last opportunity. "What do you think, Rosie?" laughed Walter. "Mamma called me her baby boy last night; me a great fellow of eleven. I think you must be her baby girl." But Rosie made no reply. She was gazing earnestly into her mother's face.
When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it: 'My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are.
"Well, good-bye, Henry! I'll mebbe see you again some time!" She held out her hand to him and he took it, and then dropped it quickly. "Yes, perhaps," he answered, and added, "Good-bye!" He went off quickly, not looking back until he had reached the foot of the "loanie," and then he stood for a second or two to watch her. She was busy with her baby again.
He looked thin and old old my boy-brother Jem. I can't forget mother's face when I showed it to her. 'That my little Jem the baby of the old House of Dreams? was all she said. "There was a letter from Faith, too. She is doing V.A.D. work in England and writes hopefully and brightly.
"There isn't any sick baby, and Mabel had a 'kerchief pinned about her head. I say it's Red Riding Hood," answered Liddy, who had begun to learn Mary Howitt's pretty poem for her next piece, and knew all about it. The question was settled by the appearance of the wolf in the second scene, and such a wolf!
'The phonograph, said Edison of his favourite, 'is my baby, and I expect it to grow up a big fellow and support me in my old age. Some people are still in doubt whether it will prove more than a curious plaything; but even now it seems to be coming into practical use in America, if not in Europe.
Reduced to plain terms, her story ran as follows: Mary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married Samuel Learoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a baby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair.
Well, he got to payin' my wife a good deal of attention when I was away, which happened to be often. She never told me. I was jealous those days. "My little girl you call Columbine was born there durin' a long absence of mine. When I got home Lucy an' the baby were gone.
He was very happy in these visits mother and child had both prospered so well, and it was quite a treat to be able to expend his tenderness on Flora. His little grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he delighted to take her from her mother and fondle her. No sooner was the baby in his arms than Flora's hands were busy among the papers, and she begged him to ring for lights.
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