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Updated: May 3, 2025
"That's just it, the child," assented the stranger, gravely. "Well, if that man was on his death-bed instead of being here talking to you, he'd swear that he thought the cap'en was sure to come up to it the next minit. That's a fact. But it wasn't until one day that he that's me ran across one of that crew in Frisco. 'Hallo, Cranch, sez he to me, 'so you got away, didn't you?
And, in bode of his doom, Jaw of Wolf, be the tomb Of the bones and the flesh, Gore-bedabbled and fresh, That cranch and that drip Under fang and from lip. As I ride in the van Of the feasters on man, With the King! Grim wolf, sate my maw, Full enow shall there be. Hairy jaw, hungry maw, Both for ye and for me!
"We none of us know what he might have had on his mind. I only hope and trust he wasn't a worse liver than we think of, Martha." Poor Mrs. Cranch was bulky, and, breathing asthmatically, had the additional motive for making her remarks unexceptionable and giving them a general bearing, that even her whispers were loud and liable to sudden bursts like those of a deranged barrel-organ.
"But who are these?" he said, pointing to two figures who now appeared upon the trail. Antonio turned. "It is the Americano, Señor Cranch, and his adopted daughter, the mestiza Juanita, seeking your reverence, methinks." "Ah!" said Father Pedro. Cranch came forward and greeted the priest cordially.
P. Cranch, and Ellery Channing. There was a sunny side of the whole movement, as T. W. Higginson and F. B. Sanborn, two of the latest survivors of the ferment, loved to emphasize in their talk and in their books; and it was shadowed also by tragedy and the pathos of unfulfilled desires.
Flanders set her meal down, clucked for the hens, went bustling about the orchard, and was seen from over the way by Mrs. Cranch, who, beating her mat against the wall, held it for a moment suspended while she observed to Mrs. Flanders was in the orchard with the chickens. Mrs. Cranch, and Mrs. Garfit could see Mrs.
We meet Cranch, and his wife of course, three times a week at that, and I drop into his studio now and then. To-day I was there, and he was hard at work upon a sunset composition, which he hopes to finish for the exhibition of the Boston Athenaeum.
"But if I refuse; if I will have nothing to do with this thing! If I will not give my word that there is not some mistake," said the priest, working himself into a feverish indignation. "That there are not slips of memory, eh? Of so many children baptized, is it possible for me to know which, eh? And if this Juanita is not your girl, eh?" "Then you'll help me to find who is," said Cranch, coolly.
"But you said nothing of this before, Senor Cranch," said he, with a gesture of indignation, turning his back quite upon Cranch, and taking a step towards the refectory. "Why should I? I was looking after the girl, not the property," returned Cranch, following the Padre with watchful eyes, but still keeping his careless, easy attitude. "Ah, well! Will it be said so, think you? Eh! Bueno.
He thought he had confessed the secret of the child's sex to Cranch, but whether the next morning or a week later he did not know. He fancied, too, that Cranch had also confessed some trifling deception to him, but what, or why, he could not remember; so much greater seemed the enormity of his own transgression.
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