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Updated: May 26, 2025
"I've got to get the feathers for Father Marty's bed, you know. I haven't shot as many yet as would make a pillow for a cradle." "The poor innocent gulls!" "The poor innocent chickens and ducks, if you come to that, Miss O'Hara." "But they're of use." "And so will Father Marty's feather bed be of use. Good-bye, Mrs. O'Hara. Good-bye, Miss O'Hara.
There was not much doubt that Marty's grounds for cutting off her hair were substantial enough, if Ambrose's eyes had been a reason for keeping it on. As for the timber-merchant, it was plain that his invitation had been given solely in pursuance of his scheme for uniting the pair. He had made up his mind to the course as a duty, and was strenuously bent upon following it out.
Janice, sobbing on her broad bosom, intimated that it was a fact. "That boy ain't no good. He didn't burn up the paper at all. She got holt on it," declared Uncle Jason, quite angry. "Oh, it wasn't wasn't Marty's fault," sobbed Janice. "And I had to know! I had to know!" They got her downstairs, and Mrs. Day sent "the men folks" to bed.
Then, seeing that she was really listening, he told of his and Marty's college days, how Marty had borrowed money from the Board of Education, and how the same Board had a hand in the college evangelistic work. He told about the deaconesses who managed the hospital at Manchester, and the training school which Marcia Dayne Carbrook had attended when she was getting ready to go to China.
Had she been wounded instead of mortified she could not have used the words; but Fitzpiers's hold upon her heart was slight. They parted thus and there, and Grace went moodily homeward. Passing Marty's cottage she observed through the window that the girl was writing instead of chopping as usual, and wondered what her correspondence could be.
Day insisted upon Marty's finishing the hoeing of the potatoes, and it took almost a pitched battle to get the boy started. Mrs. Day was inclined, after all, to "take sides" with her son against his father, so the smoke of battle was not entirely dissipated when Marty had flung himself out of the house to attack the weeds.
"Yes," Joe went on, "but I'm not going to go on with it." Marty spoke sharply: "Why not?" "I'll tell you later, Marty." "Not lost your nerve? The fire?" Joe laughed softly. "Other reasons Marty." "Retire?" Marty's appetite was spoiled. He pushed the veal cutlet from him. He was greatly agitated. "Retire you? I can see you doing nothing, blamed if I can't.
Anyhow, it's Marty's day for mailridin', and there he lopes this instant." The ranchmen took turns in riding to the post, each esteeming it a privilege, and finding nothing but pleasure in the sixty miles' gallop to Marion and back.
To inquire concerning his health had been to show less sympathy than to remain silent, considering the material interest he possessed in the woodman's life, and he had, accordingly, made a point of avoiding Marty's house. While he was here in the garden somebody came to fetch him. It was Marty herself, and she showed her distress by her unconsciousness of a cropped poll.
Reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed Marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. Chop, chop, chop, went Marty's little billhook with never more assiduity, till Mrs. Charmond spoke. "Who is that young lady I see talking to the woodman yonder?" she asked. "Mrs. Fitzpiers, ma'am," said Marty. "Oh," said Mrs.
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