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"Made an effort to be beautiful and failed!" jauntily replied Rebecca, but she was too miserable to keep up the fiction. "Oh, Aunt Miranda, don't scold. I'm so unhappy! Alice and I rolled up my hair to curl it for the raising. She said it was so straight I looked like an Indian!"
"Tell him no!" whispered Flora, but in vain, so quickly had Anna handed Irby the order. "Good-night, all!" cried Hilary, mounting. He wheeled, swung his cap and galloped. "Hear him!" laughed Miranda to Flora, and from up the dim way his song came back: "'I can't stand the wilderness But a few days, a few days."
"Oh, my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, 'I will soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come. sir,, follow me."
These things are matters, in the final resort, of individual taste rather than of demonstrable principles. But I repeat that you are very young. The critic drained his Lambrusco, and smiled at me. 'Yes, he is young, added Miranda. 'He must learn to distinguish between music, his own imagination, and a pretty woman. At present he mixes them all up together.
The spent look was still gallant, but under it was a feeling of having awfully miscalculated: flour twelve dollars a barrel and soon to be twenty. And yet the newspapers "'We see no cause for despondency," read Constance at the late breakfast table "oh, Miranda, don't you see that with that spirit we can never be subjugated?" She flourished the brave pages, for which Anna vainly reached.
Having learned the trick of beating and loving and suffering, the poor faithful heart persisted, although it lived on memories and carried on its sentimental operations mostly in secret. "You're soft, Jane," said Miranda once; "you allers was soft, and you allers will be. If't wa'n't for me keeping you stiffened up, I b'lieve you'd leak out o' the house into the dooryard."
But if Rilla was rather disappointed in the war wedding she found nothing lacking on Friday morning when Miranda said good-bye to her bridegroom at the Glen station. The dawn was white as a pearl, clear as a diamond. Behind the station the balsamy copse of young firs was frost-misted.
Don Francisco de Miranda did not live to hear of the freedom of his "Columbia." Before the close of the year 1812 he died in prison, at Cadiz. Thus perished the most gentlemanlike of filibusters, since the days when Jason sailed in the Argo to extend the blessing of Greek institutions over Colchis and to appropriate the Golden Fleece. Colonel Sprowle's family arose late the next morning.
"Miranda said the island was a hundred miles long and the mountains seem to run all the way down the centre of it." "Didn't you see the last picture?" he said, grabbing up his hat from the ground and cramming it on his head. "It was an oddly shaped mountain looked like a hawk's head. Well, there's where he is if he's still alive.
"Women are queer," mused Eben, as he returned to his fish-cleaning. "She's lost her beau and her money, and she's tickled to death." "I declare, you look just as fresh and young and happy as you did fifteen years ago!" said the widow, with a touch of envy, as they sat down at the cheerful breakfast-table. Miranda touched Mrs.
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