I have been told but I do not guarantee the statement that he was the original of Rider Haggard's "Allan Quatermain." From Good I heard sad news; poor Pat Foote, one of my best friends, had died in the fortress during the previous night. I went up at once to see his remains; they lay on a wretched truckle-bed in a dingy cell. The funeral took place that afternoon.

Since I can never see your face, And never shake you by the hand, I send my soul through time and space To greet you. You will understand. The riders turned away. Neither spoke for a while. "Mr. Haggard's like mother," said the girl at last. "He's got that." She added: "I'm glad we met him. I was very angry." "Aren't you now?" he asked. "Yes," she said, "but in a different way. It's white now.

From the very beginning she had always been Boy. Mrs. Haggard, who didn't quite approve of the name and there were many things Mrs. Haggard didn't quite approve of once inquired the origin of it. "I think it came," answered Mrs. Woodburn. And certainly nobody but the vicar's wife ever thought or spoke of the girl as Joyce. She grew up in Mrs. Haggard's judgment quite uneducated.

Here existed the "King Solomon's Mines" of Rider Haggard's fancy: here the modern gold-seekers of fact sought the treasures of Ophir; here Nature gives an awesome manifestation of her power in the Victoria Falls. It is the only country where a great business corporation rules, not by might of money but by chartered authority.

Fanny and me have taken books out of the library full as much as any of the neighbors, I rather guess." "We've read every single thing that Mrs. Southworth has ever written," said Fanny, "and that's sayin' considerable." "And all Pansy's and Rider Haggard's," declared Eva, with triumph.

Haggard's startling narrative of the phenix-female; but it is invention that we discover in their strange stories rather than imagination.

'My hat, said Cyril, with emotion, 'You've done it this time, Anthea. The flame was spreading out under the ceiling like the rose of fire in Mr Rider Haggard's exciting story about Allan Quatermain. Robert and Cyril saw that no time was to be lost. They turned up the edges of the carpet, and kicked them over the tray.

The main-line departure platform slumbered like the rest; the booking-hutches closed; the backs of Mr Haggard's novels, with which upon a weekday the bookstall shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind dingy shutters; the rare officials, undisguisedly somnambulant; and the customary loiterers, even to the middle-aged woman with the ulster and the handbag, fled to more congenial scenes.

"Churchman!" snorted his outraged spouse. Mrs. Haggard's indictment was unfounded. The girl was fierce and swift, but she was not a heathen. Mrs. Woodburn had seen to that. Sometimes she used to take the child to the Children's Services in the little old church on the edge of the Paddock Close. The girl enjoyed the services, and she loved Mr.

I seen his picture at Mr. Haggard's. Savierollher, wasn't it? They burnt him; and I don't blame 'em. He was Jaggers's father I 'ave 'eard. Only you mustn't 'and it on, else you might get me into trouble." He crossed the course, looked at the water opposite the Grand Stand, and examined the first fence lugubriously. "Time was I could ha' hop it off one foot," he said. "Something's 'appened.