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But her rider sat her firmly and brought her down to a gentle trot by the time the gate was reached. "Horo, mamma!" shouted Hughie, clambering down to open the gate. "Well, my darling! have you been a good boy all afternoon?" "Huh-huh! Guess who's come back from the shanties!" "I'm sure I can't guess. Who is it?"
He threw his arms round them, saying, "Poor old Blackie! Poor Nigger!" and he understood how Hughie was feeling behind the spruce-tree beside the faithful dog that had given him his life. As he sat there waiting for Hughie, he heard voices. "Horo!" he shouted. "Where are you? Is that you, Don?" It was his father's voice. "Yes, here we are." "Is Hughie there?" inquired another voice.
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be." For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music upon them. "One more, mother," entreated Dick. "No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye, and for Margaret here." Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle.
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