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By this marriage she had one son, James McKee, a soldier of the revolution, and ancestor of the several families of that name in the neighborhood of Armstrong's Ford, on the South Fork of the Catawba. After McKee's death, his widow married Mr. Chronicle, by whom she had an only son, William, who afterward performed a magnanimous part in defence of his country's rights.
Pretty Margery Conway had made her way eagerly enough to Mr. Lester Armstrong's private office, but her light tap on the door brought no response, and, as it was slightly ajar, she pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.
Armstrong's occupation of it, she darted in, to settle a festoon of fringe, or to pick a speck from the carpet, or to move a chair a hair's-breadth this way or that, or to smooth an invisible crease in the counterpane, or, above all, to take a pleased survey of everything once more, and to wonder how the minister would like it.
It was a beautiful clear morning in Thanksgiving-week, when a side gate, that admitted to the yard or inclosure in front of Mr. Armstrong's house, opened, and a negro, with a round good-natured face, and rather foppishly dressed, stepped out upon the walk. But, before paying our respects to Mr. Felix Qui, it may not be altogether amiss to give some description of the house of Mr.
I repeatedly sent out strong detachments toward Holly Springs, which was his main depot of supply; and General Grierson, with his Sixth Illinois, the only cavalry I had, made some bold and successful dashes at the Coldwater, compelling Van Dorn to cover it by Armstrong's whole division of cavalry.
That is just one of the questions I don't want to answer. I quite sympathized with you last night in not wishing to know how much of Mr. Armstrong's story was true. Even if wholly fictitious, a good story is always true.
Armstrong's hat was pulled over his eyes, in the same manner he wore it at the funeral of his wife, and augured some impending calamity. Mr. Armstrong entered his house, and threw himself into a seat, but he sat only a moment. Something seemed to be wanting. A restless impatience possessed him. He took up the tongs and begun to alter the disposition of the sticks of wood.
'L'arn, my lad, he would say, almost sternly, 'l'arn before ye try to teach. Paul had turned public instructor already, but that was his secret There was a sort of treason in it, for Armstrong's rival, a young and pushing tradesman, had started a weekly paper, and Paul was an anonymous contributor to its pages. But one day this was changed. 'Why, William, cried Mrs.
He submitted in anxious silence to the keen, quick examination of the skillful surgeon in charge and to the re-dressing of his wound. He could have been proud and happy but for that shadow on his life, of which Armstrong's presence would so constantly remind him.
I took an unsteady step forward. "Marian?" I said. When I got home that night I burned Dorothy Armstrong's photograph. The next day I went to my cousin Tom, who owns the fashionable studio of Croyden and, binding him over to secrecy, sought one of Marian's latest photographs from him. It is the only secret I have ever kept from my wife. Before we were married Marian told me something.