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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man what he was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, eh? Yes, but then there is something a manner, an eye. He piles the wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his hat to death.
Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and falling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft against the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon was carried away from what Pierre had been saying.
Brydon went to Brandon with him last week, for my sister's husband heard it from somebody that had seen them. I don't know how she can do it." Mrs. Corbett was mashing potatoes with a gem-jar, and without stopping her work she said: "Oh, well, Miss Thornley, it's easy for you and me to say we would not go out with Rance Belmont, but maybe that's mostly because we have never had the chance.
There was only one day in the week when the Brydon brothers could work with any degree of enjoyment, and that was on Sunday, when there was the added zest of wickedness.
He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift current. Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?" Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House.
"I would never be so lacking in politeness, however true it might be!" he answered, rolling a cigarette. Mrs. Corbett looked at him a minute, then she broke out, "Oh, but you are the smooth-tongued gent! you'd coax the birds off the bushes; but I want to tell you that you are not doing right hanging around Mrs. Brydon the way you do."
Another agent? he had been catching, as he felt, a moment back, the very breath of him; but when had he been so close as in this simple, this logical, this completely personal act? It was so logical, that is, that one might have taken it for personal; yet for what did Brydon take it, he asked himself, while, softly panting, he felt his eyes almost leave their sockets.
Brydon, as if to be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly to a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned sick immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as he fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face.
God help us! What will she do in the long drizzle in the fall, when the wheat's spoilin' in the shock maybe, and the house is dark, and her man's away what will she do?" Mrs. Brydon spent many happy hours that summer at the Stopping-House, and soon Mrs. Corbett knew all the events of her past life; the sympathetic understanding of the Irish woman made it easy for her to tell many things.
Interspersed are remarks on the manners and character of the inhabitants. Lettres sur la Sicile et sur Malta, de M. le Comte de Borch, 1777. Turin, 1782. 2 vols. 8vo. The object of the author is to supply the omissions and correct the mistakes of Brydon. Voyage aux Isles Lipari, 1781. Par D. Dolomieu.
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