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As if she could bear to hear no more, Helen rose quickly and went from the room to stand on the balcony-porch. It was not so much the Interpreter's words it was rather the spirit in which they were spoken that moved her so deeply. By her own heart she was judged. "For every idle hand," he had said. Her hands were idle hands. Her old white-haired friend in his wheel chair was doing her work.
The hillside back of the interpreter's hut was brown. But the sun was bright and warm and in every quarter of the city the people were going to their appointed places of worship. The voice of the Mill was silenced. Pete wondered if he would find Adam at home.
Even Homer sometimes nods; and I cannot but think that John Bunyan has made a slip in saying that Feeble-mind enjoyed the Interpreter's House. At any rate, I wish I could say as much about all the feeble minds known to me. The Hill Difficulty, which might have helped to make a man of Feeble- mind, saw a laughable, if it had not been such a lamentable, spectacle.
By this time Frank and some of the men had joined the group on the shore, and as it was getting late Stanley commanded silence. "Tell them I have somewhat to say to them, Oolibuck." The interpreter's remark instantly produced a dead silence. "Now ask them if they are glad to hear that we are going to stay to trade with them."
Not long after Grace had begun to walk in this path, an event happened which proved to her like the visit to the "Interpreter's House" in the Pilgrim's story; but in order to explain its full eventfulness, we must go back to tell of earlier days in her aunt's home. On Sunday mornings Grace usually drove with her aunt to church in decorous state.
He did not even turn on the lights. For a long time he stood at the darkened window, looking out into the night. "What was it?" he asked himself again and again. "What was it his father feared?" In the distance he could see a tiny spot of light shining high against the shadowy hillside above the darkness of the Flats. It was a lighted window in the Interpreter's hut.
Now tell what else you see." "I see, I see " The boy hesitated. There was so much to be seen from the Interpreter's balcony porch. The little girl's thin voice piped up with shrill eagerness, "Look at the pretty yeller fields an' the green trees away over there across the river, Bobby.
The man faced the old basket maker suddenly, as if arrested by a possible meaning in the Interpreter's words that had not at first caught his attention. "And what is this mistake that I have made?" he growled. The answer came with solemn portent. "You have killed the wrong man." The agitator was stunned. His mouth opened as if he would speak, but no word came from his trembling lips.
What assurance can you give the people, sir, that under your rule they will have more freedom for self-government, more opportunities for self-advancement and prosperity and happiness than they have at present?" "Assurance?" muttered the other, startled by the Interpreter's manner. The old basket maker continued, "Are you and your self-constituted leaders of the American working people, gods?
I said my information was that the objectionable Orders expressly proscribed by the insurgents were the Dominicans, Augustines, Franciscans and Recollects, but that the Jesuits were not included. This was fully recited to the General, and with his eyes closing and his mouth whispering close to the interpreter's cheek he gave his answer, and it was quickly rendered: "The Jesuits, too, must go.
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