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They were facing the wild North, where civilisation was hacking and hewing and ploughing its way to newer and newer cities, in an empire ever spreading to the Pole. Finden's glance loitered on this scene before he replied. At length, screwing up one eye, and with a suggestive smile, he answered: "Sure, it's all a matter of time, to the selfishest woman.
From Terry O'Ryan, brother of a peer, at Latouche, to Bernard Bapty, son of a millionaire, at Vancouver, there's a string o' them. All pride and self; and as fair a lot they've been as ever entered for the Marriage Cup. Now, isn't that so, father?" Finden's brogue did not come from a plebeian origin.
But my poetry, especially that by that wonderful young creature Miss Barrett, Mr. Kenyon, and Mr. Procter, is certainly such as has seldom before been seen in an annual, and joined with Finden's magnificent engravings ought to make an attractive work. "I am now going to my novel, if it please God to grant me health.
Both the originals, and the engravings executed from them, are in the collection. The original view near the Basilica of St Marco, by Samuel Prout, the engraving of which is in Finden's Byron, and the interior of St Marco, by Luke Price, the engraving of which is in Price's Venice Illustrated, grace the collection.
The priest looked thoughtfully out of the window; Finden's eyes were screwed up in a questioning way, but neither made any response to Varley's remarks. There was a long minute's silence. They were all three roused by hearing a light footstep on the veranda. Father Bourassa put down his glass and hastened into the hallway.
If she is with the right man, near or far is nothing." "So far from home," said the priest reflectively, but his eyes furtively watched the other's face. "But home's where man and wife are." The priest now looked him straight in the eyes. "Then, as you say, she will not marry M'sieu' Varley hein?" The humour died out of Finden's face. His eyes met the priest's eyes steadily. "Did I say that?
"Oh, it's Meydon, is it, that bad case I heard of to-day?" The priest nodded again and 'pointed. "Voila, Madame Meydon, she is coming. She has seen him her hoosban'." Finden's eyes followed the gesture. The little widow of Jansen was coming from the hospital, walking slowly towards the river. "As purty a woman, too as purty and as straight bewhiles. What is the matter with him with Meydon?"
"Oh, it's Meydon, is it, that bad case I heard of to-day?" The priest nodded again and 'pointed. "Voila, Madame Meydon, she is coming. She has seen him her hoosban'." Finden's eyes followed the gesture. The little widow of Jansen was coming from the hospital, walking slowly towards the river. "As purty a woman, too as purty and as straight bewhiles. What is the matter with him with Meydon?"
They were facing the wild North, while civilization was hacking and hewing and ploughing its way to newer and newer cities, in an empire ever spreading to the Pole. Finden's glance loitered on this scene before he replied. At length, screwing up one eye, and with a suggestive smile, he answered: "Sure, it's all a matter of time, to the selfishest woman.
If she is with the right man, near or far is nothing." "So far from home," said the priest reflectively, but his eyes furtively watched the other's face. "But home's where man and wife are." The priest now looked him straight in the eyes. "Then, as you say, she will not marry M'sieu' Varley hein?" The humour died out of Finden's face. His eyes met the priest's eyes steadily. "Did I say that?
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