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"But that isn't possible," he said, after thinking a moment. "They called me that sometimes, back back " "At the Orph'nige, eh? 'Oo called you that? The Doctor? No," said Tilda hurriedly, as he halted with a shiver, "don't look be'ind; 'e's not anywhere near. An' as for the Good Samaritan, you're wrong about that, too; for 'ere's the Good Samaritan!" She pointed at the building, and he stared.
At last Tilda dreamed that the funny, wrinkled, cross, little old woman, got down one day off her donkey, poured the stones out of the bag, and came and sat down by the beautiful lady. Then the funny little old woman cried. She put her head in the lap of the beautiful lady, and said, "O mother, how shall I get these wrinkles away!"
Understand?" "You want Mr. Mortimer to write?" asked Tilda dubiously. "No, I don't. I want you to write that's to say, if you can." "I can print letters, same as the play-bills." "That'll do. You can get one o' the Mortimers to address the envelopes. And now," said Mr. Hucks, "I 'd best be off and speak to Sam Bossom to get out the boat.
"I s'pose not," Tilda admitted doubtfully. "Well now, if your friend Bill started to drive th' old Success to Commerce like a train, first he'd be surprised an' disappointed to see her heavin' a two-foot wave ahead of her maybe more, maybe less along both banks; an' next it might annoy 'im a bit when these two waves fell together an' raised a weight o' water full on her bows, whereby she 'd travel like a slug, an' the 'arder he drove the more she wouldn' go; let be that she'd give 'im no time to cuss, even when I arsked 'im perlitely what it felt like to steer a monkey by the tail.
I thought I'd go and see Miss Maggie ef you'd give me her address." "Well, now, that's a very good idea," said Mrs. Martin. "I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That's very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is." "It's longin' I am to lay eyes on 'er, mum. She's a bee-utiful way with 'er," said Matilda.
"She's the girl whose face haunted that picture of the dogwood flowers, brother. She's the girl he wrote to just once, you remember, that time when we stopped in New York on our way from here to Bretherton. I guess she's called and called to him from these hills ever since he left, and now " "Well, 'Tilda?" "She's gone away and the call is stilled."
Lans Treadwell can't get anything but good out of Sandy, and there isn't a soul living you and I included who could draw Morley from his course, so I've looked on and chuckled considerably." "Brother, I sometimes wonder how it is that you trust Sandy as you do you never question." "Not out loud, 'Tilda." "But he does not always explain. Now his working this summer as he has!
Dennis came forward to be introduced, but he had eyes only for Betsy. She gave him a coy look out of her china-blue eyes. Tilda smiled shyly at Sally. Both of the Johnston girls wore pretty linsey-woolsey dresses under their shawls and neat moccasins on their feet. Sally, looking down at her own soiled dress and bare toes, wished that she could run away and hide.
The streets of this Bursfield suburb were far from suggestive of the New Jerusalem a City of which, by the way, Tilda had neither read nor heard. They were, in fact, mean and squalid, begrimed with smoke and imperfectly scavenged. But they were, at least, populous, and to Tilda the faces in the tram and on the pavements wore, each and all, a friendly almost an angelic glow.
By such a pool but they had scared away the trout our two children were busy. Tilda, her ablutions over, had handed the cake of soap to Arthur Miles, scrambled out on the deeper side, and ensconced herself in the fork of an overhanging hazel-mote; where, having reached for a cluster of nuts and cracked them, she sat and munched, with petticoat dripping and bare legs dangling over the pool.
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