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Updated: June 21, 2025
Take tonight to think it over, and tell us tomorrow." "Gawd, I'll go to Missoury if I can sell the farm!" he cried. "That's better. How much is it worth, Colonel?" "It's good land," the old gentleman answered. "I'll give a hundred and fifty an acre, because it adjoins me." "How much is it mortgaged for?" Brent turned to Hewlet, who seemed surprised at the question.
Hewlet, one of her friends already mentioned, she wrote a small pamphlet called "Thoughts on the Education of Daughters." This gentleman rated her powers so high that he felt sure of her success as a writer. As he was well acquainted with Mr. Johnson, a prominent bookseller in Fleet Street, he could promise that her manuscript would be dealt with fairly.
"To King four," Brent replied, leaning over and pushing out his own King's pawn. They had not been playing many minutes when the Colonel, pausing to light a cigar, looked up with a start of surprise. Brent wheeled about and there stood Tom Hewlet, swaying awkwardly and weeping. It was uncanny the way he had approached so near without being heard.
On which Blunt, waiting for no further orders, marched directly in the midst of the enemy's fire to the dead bodies, which law within ten yards of the muzzle of their pieces, and turning over several of the dead bodies, he distinguished that of the cadet, and brought away the prize for which he had so fairly ventured. This action put Hewlet on his mettle.
His sermons gave her great delight, and she often went to listen to them. He in return seems to have felt great interest in her, and to have recognized her extraordinary mental force. Mr. John Hewlet, also a clergyman, was another of her friends, and she retained his friendship for many years afterwards. A third friend, mentioned by Godwin in his Memoirs, was Mrs.
She wheeled and left him, quickly running up the steps and into the house; but an echo of the pleading in her voice remained, and now gently pushed aside his ill humor which, in turn, was succeeded by a feeling of joyous relief; because, hidden in the rhododendron thicket, a girl had whispered for him to have no fear that Tom Hewlet would not threaten his peace again.
It was said that his first wife had all but died of neglect, and then burst an artery in her brain while pursuing him with a skillet. The second Mrs. Hewlet still held on.
In it rested a light translatable as a great peace which comes to one who has forgiven nobly, at the sacrifice of toil, an erring friend. Brent reached Arden behind a sweaty horse. The meeting with Hewlet was filling him more and more with an agonizing unrest. He wanted to be alone, and he wanted not to be alone. He wanted to think, and he wanted not to think.
Besides that exciting memory, however, the first Mrs. Hewlet, previously the widow of a country parson, had left him a daughter by that marriage, and this girl, Nancy, had stayed for Tom's house was, after all, the only place she had to stay.
A mile from Arden stood a house, too near the road to give it the air of being a place of many comforts, even were it in other respects pretentious. But its lightly built porch, precariously nailed to an unpainted frame front, stamped it with poverty. Here dwelt Tom Hewlet, proprietor of ten acres and a bad name.
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