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Do you imagine I would stoop to defend my conduct to you to one who is, either wittingly or unwittingly, hand in glove with Pierre Lapierre?" The unconcealed scorn of the man's words stung Chloe to the quick. "Pierre Lapierre is a man!" she cried with flashing eyes. "He is neither afraid nor ashamed to declare his principles.

"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "one o' yer principles will have to be to get to bed some time tonight, and not be a keepin' everybody up till mornin'; now, every one of you young uns that don't want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden." "Niggers! all on yer," said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity, "I give yer my blessin'; go to bed now, and be good boys."

I told her of it last night," she added mournfully, "as he requested, and I very much fear that the fright and terror she suffered on that account have helped to bring on this attack." "Poor, dear, precious lamb!" sighed Chloe, who stood at the foot of the bed, gazing sadly at her nursling, and wiping away tear after tear, as they chased each other down her sable cheek.

I don't tell you this to discourage any just complaint, but only to show you that we've got to have direct and specific evidence. Now, Miss Elliston, I'll hear what you've got to say." Chloe sank into a chair and motioned the others to be seated. "We may as well sit down while we talk.

"Chloe is the one who sings madrigals to-night, Uncle; she is going to read Colin a lesson"; and, sitting down at the piano, she let her hands run over the keys and burst out joyously into that variation of Raleigh's pretty pastoral song, "Shepherd, what's Love? I prithee tell."

How did he ever write such a style! He, who could hardly get through a note now without blots and labour. Self-pity grew upon him, and self-admiration. By heaven! How could a woman treat a man a man who could write to her like this as Chloe had treated him! The old smart revived; or rather, the old indelible impressions of it left on nerve and brain. The letters lay on his knee.

"That did she, Captain Wallingford; for, while you were discussing Neb and Chloe with old Dido, we, that is, the doctor, the mother and myself, were discussing Andrew and Lucy between ourselves. The good old lady gave me to understand it was a settled thing, and that she looked on Miss Hardinge, already, as a third daughter." This was a strange subject for Mrs.

Chloe will give it to him sorely for this, I'm afraid." They went deeply into the question of ransoming the boys, for they were convinced that they had really fallen into the hands of the brigands. But do what they would, say what they would, they could only come back to one result. They must wait. Patience was difficult under the circumstances, but there was no help for it.

"Hush! hush, darlin'! 'tain't never best to borrow trouble, an' I'se sure you'll come back one ob dese days," replied Chloe, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, though her heart ached as she looked into the soft, hazel eyes, all dimmed with tears, and marked how thin and pale the dear little face had grown.

Chloe had a father, the Reverend Homer Greene, and an intermittent mother, who sometimes palely presided over a twilight teapot. The Reverend Homer was a burr-like man with a life-work. He was writing a concordance to the Scriptures, and had arrived as far as Kings. Being, presumably, a suitor for his daughter's hand, I was timber for his literary outpourings.