The "gush" of the horses' nostrils sounded refreshingly in his ears as the animals fairly danced over the smooth, icy trail. The sleigh-bells jangled with a confused clashing of sounds in response to the gait of the eager beasts. But Grey thought little of these things. He thought little of anything just now but his intended despoiling of the owner of Lonely Ranch.

"Oh, Cousin Janet," said Alice, "if Walter were not so lonely; he knows not where he is going, nor what he is going to do." "It is true," said Cousin Janet, weeping too; "but we can hope, and trust, and pray. And now, my love, let us join your mother in her room; it is a sad parting for her, too, for Walter is dear to us all."

"What a pity I didn't know it before! Mother would so like to know you, Miss Aylmer. I have told her something about you. Won't you come and see her some day? She would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and perhaps you will not stand on ceremony." "Of course not. I should be delighted to see your mother," said Florence, brightening up wonderfully. "I have been very lonely," she added.

She nevertheless lived in that lonely spot with no protector except her pistol and some directions about antidotes. She dismissed him when she had proved he was cheating her; she made the planting pay as well as any man did after the war; she educated her last son, got him into the navy, and then, one evening, walking the river-banks too late, she caught the fever and died.

Peter Ibbetson "The young man, lonely, chivalrous and disquieted by a touch of genius," as the hero has been well described was written for money, and brought its author a thousand pounds. Peter Ibbetson was not put above Trilby in the author's lifetime; but we believe it to have much more vitality than the latter work.

Man's greatest sorrows often are a part Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes, Which press far heavier on the lonely heart Than now the earth that on his coffin lies." Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent over the dead. "Look!" said Care; "what happiness have your goloshes brought to mankind?"

I seem to breathe that word, In utterance more clear Than other words, more slowly round I move my lips, to keep the sound Still lingering in my ear. For were my lonely life allowed To claim that gifted son, I should be met by straining eyes, Welcoming tears and grateful sighs To hallow my return.

On that bright summer day when we laid our lambs to rest the parson's voice faltered as he read the Burial Service, and tears glistened in his eyes." Since then whatever happened of joy or sorrow at the Rectory was of the deepest interest to the lonely two over the way. So on this bright afternoon as Mrs. Larkins sat by the window her thoughts were busy with the events of the past night.

Primrose walked out of the kitchen door and around the path, sending a long, dubious glance in the direction of her new home. Six months ago she had left it. How queer to be divided up in this way. She had felt lonely at Wetherill House, and missed her mother sadly. To be sure it was winter, and here on the farm it was glowing, golden summer. She had not known the dreariness of a long winter here.

We did not mind staying up, and whiled away the hours in pleasant conversation as we sat as near as we could get to the glowing coal fire. The storm increased and finally settled down into a blizzard. By midnight it was something appalling. There was not a hill, nor even a tree, for scores of miles, to break its force as it dashed against our lonely station.