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Maitland had also written; but what he did not know was that with the fearlessness so characteristic of him Bob Carlton had taken the time and trouble to pen a long note to Colorado as a plea for his chum. It was a remarkable composition from a boy so young a letter full of affection and earnestness and voicing a surprising insight into his friend's character and disposition. Mr.
You are not financially embarrassed, so far as we can determine, at least." Maitland politely interposed his fingers between his yawn and the detective's intent regard. "You have ten minutes more, I'm sorry to say," he said; glancing at the clock. "And there is another point, more significant yet." "Ah?" "Yes."
Concentrated hell and torture with every moment, stabbing and pulling at each heart and then then the sad, mournful face of Andrew Marshall as he steps forward slowly past Mag Robertson, past Jean Fleming, past Jenny Maitland, past them all, and at last putting a kindly hand on the shoulder of Nellie Sinclair, he says, with a catch in his voice that would break a heart of granite: "Come awa' hame, Nellie.
We have more churches for our size than any town west of the Alleghanies." "We need more jails than any town, east or west," Mr. Ferguson retorted, grimly. Mrs. Maitland avoided the deduction. Her face was full of pride. "You just wait! We'll be the most important city in this country yet, because we will hold the commerce of the world right here in our mills!"
But Gore, Maitland and Colborne had not presented themselves before them in the garb of tried Reformers. They had been the Tory emissaries of Tory superiors beyond sea, whose instructions they had generally carried out. All this had been changed; but the change, so far as Upper Canada was concerned, had been for the worse.
It would have seemed as though no other grief could be the portion of Ellen, but another sorrow was impending over her, which, while it lasted, was a source of distress inferior only to Herbert's death. Entering the library one morning, she was rather surprised to find not only Mr. Maitland but Archdeacon Howard with her uncle.
Of course I know it isn't true. Where's Maitland?" "Search me," said Vic. "All I know is that I hit upon that Scotch Johnny out in the hall he nearly wrenched an arm off me and did everything but bite spitting out incoherent gaspings indicating that Maitland had 'gone awa' wi' his gur-r-l, confound him! and suggesting the usual young Lochinvar stuff. You know nothing in it, of course.
The sun was lying on the dark oblong, and in those illuminated depths maternity was glowing like a jewel. Sarah Maitland saw no art, but she saw divine things. She bent forward and looked deep into the picture; suddenly her eyes smiled until her whole face softened. "Why, look at his little foot," she said, under her breath; "she's holding it in her hand!"
She had had a letter from Blair, and all her joyousness had fled: "The Dean is an ass, of course; but mother'll get excited about it, I'm afraid. Do smooth her down, if you can." No wonder Nannie's hand trembled! Mrs. Maitland, putting her letters on the table, sat down heavily and began to knit. She glanced at Nannie over her spectacles. "Better get through with it," she said to herself.
Despite the obstructing wind, he had never run so swiftly, and the resounding whack he gave the Maitland knocker startled all within the house. Poor Aunt Eunice required but little now to set her nerves a-quiver, and was anxiously pacing the sitting-room floor, wondering how and where to begin that search for little Katharine, which must be deferred no longer.
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