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At length the dreary old woman, who seemed to grow more gaunt and ghostly every day, took the form in Lane's disordered fancy of the misfortune that war had put upon him.
After leaping several times with the view of doing so, he fell flat upon his face; and when he recovered his senses, and was acquainted with the cause of his face being bruised, he made a solemn vow to abstain from wine ever after." Lane's Arab. Nights, vol. i. pp. 217, 218.
While she was there old Hildy crept in, with her feeble step, and whispered, "I foun' dis un'er Cap'n Lane's piller." It was but a scrap of paper, unaddressed; but Suwanee understood its significance. It contained these words: "I can never repay you, but to discover some coin which a nature like yours can accept has become one of my supreme ambitions. If I live, we shall meet again."
This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for posting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought. Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had been dining at Mrs Lane's. Her attire was still simple, but of quality which would have signified recklessness, but for the outlook whereof Jasper spoke to Whelpdale. The girl looked very beautiful.
"Died in hospital after Antietam, sir." "David Moulton, Field's brigade." "Killed nearly a year ago, in the valley, sir." "William Fitzpatrick, Lane's brigade." "Taken prisoner at Antietam. Not yet exchanged, sir." "Herbert Jones, Pender's brigade." "Killed at South Mountain, sir." Harry felt a little shiver. The list of those who would never receive their letters was growing too long.
Betsey Lane's brown old face suddenly worked with excitement, but in a moment more she regained her usual firm expression, and spoke carelessly to Peggy as she turned and came alongside. The high spring wind of the morning had quite fallen; it was a lovely May afternoon.
In his letter to Mr. Payne of that date he says, "It will only be prudent to prepare for an attack. I am perfectly ready to justify a complete translation of the book. And if I am obliged to say what I think about Lane's Edition there will be hard hitting. Of course I wish to leave his bones in peace, but may make that impossible.
Used as Lane was to his comrade's outbursts, this one struck singularly home to Lane's heart and made him mute. The chill of his earlier misgiving returned, augmented by a strange uneasiness, a premonition of the unknown and dreadful future. But he threw it off. Faith would not die in Lane. It could not die utterly because of what he felt in himself. Yet what was in store for him?
I must go to see him." It was not a long ride from the terminus of the car line to where the Maynards lived, yet measured by Lane's growing distress of mind it seemed a never-ending journey. He breathed a deep breath of relief when he got off the car, and when the Maynard homestead loomed up dark and silent, he hung back slightly. A maid admitted Lane, and informed him that Mr.
They did so with mingled compassion and reluctance, though Harding was sensible of a curious strained expectation. Soon the body lay clear of the snow, and the dim light fell on the frozen face. "It's Clarke!" Blake cried. "Sure," said Harding gravely. "I'm not surprised." "Then you knew him?" Lane's tone was sharp. Benson answered him. "Yes; I knew him pretty well.
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