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Gladstone was in August, 1857, when Lord Kinnaird kindly took me into the House of Commons, and pointed out to me from a side gallery the most prominent celebrities. A tall, finely formed man, in a clear resonant voice, addressed the House for a few moments. "That is Gladstone," whispered Lord Kinnaird. Mr.
There was no doubt that she recognized him, and when he rose and took off his shapeless hat she looked at him steadily for a moment or two. He wondered whether he were right in his surmises as to why she did this; and, though his forehead grew a trifle hot, he decided that he could not blame her. Appearances had certainly been against him. "I am going to join Mrs. Kinnaird.
Not far off is Camperdown, once the residence of Lord Duncan, who called it after the famous victory he won over the Dutch; and a little distance further is Rossie Priory, belonging to the Kinnaird family.
The relations between Kinnaird and the father and mother appeared to be indefinite rather than unfriendly. There were times, it is true, when he came round by the dairy and gave private messages to Jeanie Trim, but at other times he figured as one of the ordinary guests of a large and hospitable household.
Then Kinnaird summoned one of the Indians to clear away the meal. The brown-skinned, dark-haired man appeared in the entrance of the tent and spoke haltingly in English. "They wait," he said, pointing to the supper plates. "Want piece shirt handkerchief. Packer man's boot full of blood." Those he addressed looked at one another, and Kinnaird, rising, went out hastily.
'I'll speak with ye, Jeanie, when this woman goes away; it's her that my mither's put to spy on me. The nurse retired into the shadow of the wardrobe. 'She's away now, said the maid. 'Jeanie, is it Mr. Kinnaird? 'Well, now, would you like it to be Mr. Kinnaird? The maid spoke as we speak to a familiar friend when we have joyful news.
Ida Stirling was sitting by an open window of a very artistically-furnished room, with an English newspaper lying on the little table beside her, and The Colonist, which is published in British Columbia, on her knee. She fancied from the writing on the wrapper that Arabella Kinnaird had sent her the former, and there was a paragraph in it which had interested her more than a little.
Miss Kinnaird watched the swimmer's progress with open appreciation. "Dancing," she said didactically, "isn't to be compared with that! It's the essence of rhythmic movement! I must certainly study swimming. I wish he'd come right on."
Ida became conscious that she was growing cold; but she sat quite still for at least five minutes, thinking hard, and wondering why she felt so sorry to give up Gregory Kinnaird.
"It's clearing, and I think I could get down," he said. "It would be better if Miss Stirling came with me." "Yes," said Kinnaird reflectively, "I think she ought to go." There was, however, a difficulty when Ida rose to her feet, and stood looking about her half awake. She could not speak distinctly, but she seemed bent on staying.
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