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"We! Who's we?" "Elliott and I," answered Bob, surprised. "Why?" Martin's gaze shifted. He plainly hesitated for a next remark. "How'd you like it there?" he asked lamely, at length. "I thought none of you fellows ever went there." "Fine timber," answered Bob, cheerfully. "We don't usually. Somebody does though. California John told me that trail was old and out of use; but it's been used a lot.

She could not keep back the tears, and when Susie and George put their arms about her neck and asked what was the matter, it made the matter worse. It was the day before Christmas. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily. Even in Slab Alley one could hear sounds of joy at the approaching festivities. But there was no joy in Widow Martin's house or heart. The dinner-hour had come and passed.

Martin's summer is only the lightening of the year that comes before its death; and November, although it brought not then such evil fogs as it now afflicts London withal, yet brought with it November weather one of God's hounds, with which he hunts us out of the hollows of our own moods, and teaches us to sit on the arch of the cellar.

Dodd, easily, nibbling her pen holder, "when it comes to light, just remember that it's mine. I don't doubt it'll turn up sometime. An' now, my dear, I'll just begin on them letters. Cousin Si Martin's folks are a-packin' an' expectin' to get here next week. I suppose you're willin' to furnish the stamps?" "Willing!" cried Dorothy, "I should say yes!" Mrs.

My maid, whose head was always running on Martin, would come hack to my room, after delivering one of my lying excuses, and say: "You should have seen his face, when I told him you were ill. It was just as if I'd driven a knife into him." Everybody seemed to be in a conspiracy to push me into Martin's arms Alma above all others.

I hope that, merely because he HAS done so, you don't feel obliged to accept this man against your better judgment?" "Oh no," said Mrs. Martin quietly. The case seemed hopeless. And Sperry had the miserable conviction that by having insisted upon Mrs. Martin's judgment being final they had estopped their own right to object. But how could they have foreseen her extraordinary taste?

Mr. Howells has written a long series of poems, novels, sketches, stories, and essays, and has been perhaps the most continuous worker in the literary art among American writers. He was born at Martin's Perry, Belmont County, Ohio, March 1, 1837, and the experiences of his early life have been delightfully told by himself in A Boy's Town, My Year in a Log Cabin, and My Literary Passions.

Heine has spoken of Martin, as has Théophile Gautier; and his name, by some kink of destiny, is best known to the present generation because of Macaulay's mention of it in an essay. The Vale of Tempe is one of Martin's larger plates seldom seen in the collector's catalogue. We have viewed it and other rare prints in the choice collection referred to already.

He was first educated at a private school in the church of St. Martin's in the Fields, afterwards removed to Westminster school, where the famous Camden was master.

"Dr Philip has written on that subject," observed Albert, speaking of the last of Dr Martin's sermons. "Here are some remarks from fifty-five propositions, which were published some time back."