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And she had a passing wonder at herself for these precautions. A year ago, a week ago, she would have thrown herself upon her bed in passionate weeping or clung to her mother and talked her sorrow away in her loving sympathy and advice. But at this supreme hour of her life, she wanted to be alone. She did not wish to talk about Ian with any one.

"Yesterday we tried to do it wif our own noses, but we couldn't, 'cause it hurt, and we wanted to go ever so far." "So we went down to where those big round stone pipes are in the long hole," said Richard, picking up the story as Ian paused. "Oh Richard, Richard, what made you?" I cried, holding him so tight that he squirmed away.

Ian Belward had painted them and their van in the hills of Auvergne, and had persuaded her to sit for a picture. He had treated her courteously at first. Her father was taken ill suddenly, and died. She was alone for a few days afterwards. Ian Belward came to her. Of that miserable, heart-rending, cruel time, the life-sorrow of a defenceless girl, Gaston heard with a hard sort of coldness.

"An English gentleman told me," said Ian, "that you could not escape the chimes of joyful bells in any part of the ringing island." Vedder had just entered the room and he stood still to listen to these words. Then he said: "Men differ. For the first victory let all the bells of England ring if they want to.

"It's a bonny goblet," said Alexander. "Why do you keep it like that?" Ian looked around him. "Years and years ago my father, who is dead now, was in France. There was a banquet at Saint-Germain. A very great person gave it and was in presence himself. All the gentlemen his guests drank a toast for which the finest wine was poured in especial goblets.

The punt whirled round, leaped over the water, dashed through the doorway, and went crashing into the staircase. Before Peegwish could pick himself up, Ian had vanished up the stairs. The savage found him a moment later wildly selecting a rope from the heap that lay on the floor of the attic. As Peegwish entered, Ian suddenly turned on him with a gaze of increased intensity.

Had the young man gone mad? Peegwish felt very uncomfortable. He had some reason to! Another thought had flashed into Ian's mind the words "your own unaided hands" troubled him. Peegwish could be kept out of the boat, but he could not be kept from rendering aid of some sort, in some way or other. There was but one resource. Ian sprang on Peegwish like a lion.

Popularity rewards the writer who can assault the feelings of his readers, and anyone who uses a more delicate method must be content with a smaller circle of readers. It is in this manner, amiably enough, that Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox can conquer America with sentimental poems, as Ian Maclaren once conquered England with sentimental stories.

Back of it all was the matter that Ian Deal would have died before confessing the pain and powerlessness of a brother who loves jealously. Few beings of his years would have seen so deep and kept his nerve that instant, but Skag had been different since his battle with the cobra. He had decided never to lose his nerve again.

Like so many of the young men of that country, Ian had been intended for the army; but there was in him this much of the spirit of the eagle he resembled, that he passionately loved freedom, and had almost a gypsy's delight in wandering. When he left college, he became tutor in a Russian family of distinction, and after that accepted a commission in the household troops of the Czar.

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