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Updated: May 26, 2025
"My!" said Maimie, when she had recovered her breath sufficiently to speak, "is that the church?" She pointed to a huge wooden building about whose door a group of men were standing. "Huh-huh, that's it," said Hughie; "but we will soon be done with the ugly old thing."
"Uncle Hughie would say that everything had conspired for you. His theory is the happiest one. He would tell you that if you had gone probably some disastrous circumstance would have followed." "Perhaps he is right," said the young man meditatively. He could not yet regard his failure to meet Rosalie's demands as anything but a misfortune.
If it was never found, as perhaps he hoped, he had still fulfilled his trust and the dictates of his conscience in willing the money back to you." "But, Kenny, how could he bury it?" "How often," reminded Kenny, "has Hughie in summer wheeled him out to the orchard and left him there? How often has he wheeled himself around the walk by the lilac bush? And he was clever and cunning.
"I know you are very fond of Agnes, and you are behaving splendidly to her; but you will think of Miss Frost and of Hughie. You will write to me once or twice a week, and afterward, you know, it is settled that you and I are both to meet at the Merrimans', where we are to spend one term together." "Oh, dear, how am I to endure that?" "You will endure it when I give you a piece of news.
Instead of answering her question, the mother said, after a moment's silence, "He's a good man, Elder McMillan." "Oh yes, I daresay he's a good man," said Shenac with some sharpness; "but that's no reason why he should want to have our Hughie." The little boys were all in bed by this time, and Hamish and Shenac were alone with their mother.
It is positively painful to see the ignorance of these city children in regard to all living things beasts and birds and plants. Why, many of them couldn't tell a beech from a basswood." "Oh, mother!" protested Hughie, aghast at such ignorance. "Yes, indeed, it is dreadful, I assure you," said his mother, smiling.
Here, Don," he called aloud, "we'll let Hughie keep goal for a little," and they ran Hughie back to the goal on one skate. "You go out, Thomas," gasped Hughie. "Don't talk. We've only five minutes." "They have broken his leg," said the master, with a sob in his voice. "Nothing wrong, I hope," said Dan, skating up. "No; play the game," said the master, fiercely.
"Order! or no spelling-match." The alternative was awful enough to quiet even the impish Hughie, who knew the tone carried no idle threat, and who loved a spelling-match with all the ardor of his little fighting soul.
The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait of Mr W. H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues. For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked. Or Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I? I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily.
"I think I will jist be going back now," he said, at length. But Hughie seized him. "Oh, Ranald, you must come with me." He had pictured himself telling his mother of Ranald's exploit, and covering his hero with glory. But this was the very thing that Ranald dreaded and hated, and was bound to prevent. "You will not be going to the Deepole again, I warrant you," Ranald said, with emphasis.
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