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On hearing the news, Drysdale dragged himself into the house and went to bed. There he lay, groaning and sobbing piteously, and when Andrews called in the afternoon, he was so helpless that Andrews insisted on calling a physician. In a short time he returned with Dr. Sprague, who examined the patient, and prescribed for him. Dr.

"Yes," said the steward; "you men stay where you are, and I'll put the stuff aboard for you, and then you can get out." "All right," I answered; "go ahead." Some of us sat about the after-skylight, while Andrews and his gang disposed themselves, as comfortably as they might, around the mizzen.

"Let me read some of your stories." "Well, here's my masterpiece. Jane Andrews' mother scolded her frightfully because she had so many handkerchiefs in the wash that week. It's a harrowing tale of the wanderings of a Methodist minister's wife. I made her a Methodist because it was necessary that she should wander. She buried a child every place she lived in.

Andrews even devotes the first part of his book on Shakespeare and the Bible to a study of parallels between the two in peculiar forms of speech, and thinks it "probable that our translators of 1611 owed as much to Shakespeare as, or rather far more than, he owed to them." It is generally agreed that only two of his works were written after our version appeared.

And, then, when George Gillespie was lying on his deathbed in Edinburgh, with his pillow filled with stinging apprehensions, as is often the case with God's best servants and ripest saints, hear how his old friend, now professor of divinity in St. Andrews, writes to him: 'My reverend and dear brother, look to the east. Die well. Your life of faith is just finishing. Finish it well.

The officer returned the smile, but rather grimly. "It is the usual protest, Mr. Andrews. I don't blame you for the denial, but the evidence against you is very strong. Will you come? And quietly?" "I am unable to offer physical resistance," replied the young fellow, as he slowly rose from his chair and displayed his thin figure.

"Well, I'll be struck!" cried Watson. "That's my county, too! What part of it do you live in?" After a little more of this conversation, which was given in loud tones, the two men withdrew to a corner and sat down. "We are all here now except two of our men," said Andrews, in a low voice. "Half of the fellows have gone to bed, thoroughly tired out. But where's George? Isn't he with you?"

"Thirty pounds a year, my lord." "Go tomorrow morning to Benby, who engaged you for Mrs. Gareth-Lawless. He will be at his office by nine and will pay you what is owed to you and a month's wages in lieu of notice." "The mistress " began Andrews. "I have spoken to Mrs. Gareth-Lawless." It was a lie, serenely told. Feather was doing a new skirt dance in the drawing-room. "She is engaged.

Andrews took no notice of him save to draw a revolver from his pocket and place it on the table beside his plate. "Sit down and eat, papa," said Miss Sackett, who was at his right hand, and as she did so she placed her hand upon his shoulder.

Her little round black straw hat with a bit of a red flower on it was just under his chin. "I can't see a thing," she gasped, still giggling. "I'll describe the landscape," said Andrews. "Why, we are crossing the Seine already." "Oh, how pretty it must be!" An old gentleman with a pointed white beard who stood beside them laughed benevolently. "But don't you think the Seine's pretty?"