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"G-guess it's because I'm not good enough to be anything more," he remarked suddenly. "Is that it?" "You have not tried even to be a friend," she said. "H-how about Worthington?" he persisted. "Just friends with him?" "I won't talk about Mr. Worthington," cried Cynthia, desperately, and retreated toward the lantern again. "J-just friends with Worthington?"

"F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble. Fine thought." He ruminated a little. "Never writ anything did you never writ anything?" "Nothing worth publishing," answered poor William Wetherell. "J-just dreamed' dreamed and kept store. S something to have dreamed eh something to have dreamed?" Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

He started toward the hall, but a wild wail from Lloyd stopped him. "I won't have the doctah! I'm not sick, and you sha'n't send for him! I j-just cried because the harp-string b-broke so suddenly that it s-scared me!" The Colonel paused and looked at her in amazement.

"He acts as though he owned it." "Oh, DOES he?" exclaimed Alfred hotly. "I'll soon put a stop to that," he declared. "Where did he take him?" Again the two women looked at each other inquiringly, then Aggie stammered evasively. "Oh, j-just downstairs somewhere." "I'll LOOK j-just downstairs somewhere," decided Alfred, and he snatched up his hat and started toward the door.

"F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble. Fine thought." He ruminated a little. "Never writ anything did you never writ anything?" "Nothing worth publishing," answered poor William Wetherell. "J-just dreamed' dreamed and kept store. S something to have dreamed eh something to have dreamed?" Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

The way you came whack on the pavement was j-just immense; and do you know, Peter, you looked quite nice when you lay f-fainting. One lady called you a pretty boy, and I was quite sorry you were unconscious." "Ye're a disgustin' liar, Nestie, besides being an impident young brat.

"Oh, m-master Hangman," he whispered, "y-you're too l-late j-just too late!" And so, like a weary child settling itself to rest, he pillowed his head upon his arm, and sighing fell asleep. Then Mr.

Grace's head had dropped on Betty's shoulder and she was crying softly. "B-Betty, you're such a comfort," she murmured as Betty gently stroked her hair. "That was j-just what I w-wanted you to say. I've been so m-miserable."

"F-found Rome in brick, left it in marble. Fine thought." He ruminated a little. "Never writ anything did you never writ anything?" "Nothing worth publishing," answered poor William Wetherell. "J-just dreamed' dreamed and kept store. S something to have dreamed eh something to have dreamed?" Wetherell forgot his uneasiness in the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

"What's the matter with grandpa's little girl?" Mrs. Sherman, with a frightened expression, hurried to her, and, bending over her, tried to get a glimpse of the tear-swollen face buried so persistently in the cushions. "Nothing's happened! No, I'm not sick," came in smothered tones from the depths of the pillows. "It's j-just crying itself, and I I I c-can't stop-p-p!"