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Updated: May 28, 2025
The blacksmith, one eye inside the telescope, paid no attention. "That's so," agreed Spectacle John, with suspicious cordiality, "especially as He's made an occasional vessel jist to hold money." "That's better than bein' a bag to hold wund, like some folks you admire, John," said Sandy McQuarry with deep meaning.
Could the orphan be big enough to run at large? And had the McQuarry and the Cross and the Williams children all met to celebrate its arrival? "Save us!" ejaculated Miss Arabella again, "they must 'a' got a noisy one!" There was a scrambling, tearing noise on the other side of the fence, and a head arose above it, followed by the figure of a boy.
The next Sabbath Sandy McQuarry drove past the Elmbrook church and worshiped, fifteen miles away, with the Glenoro congregation, and there he had worshiped ever since. "Och, well, indeed," remarked Uncle Hughie, wisely reverting to an earlier subject, "it will be a question that puzzles the greatest men in the world, why some people must suffer.
"Oh, but I Intended it for your wedding dress! You mind, I told you?" "Wedding dress!" Elsie laughed. "Why, Arabella, it might have been worn into rag-carpet strips before I'd need it!" "But I thought it seemed to me, he he always acts as if he liked you so awful, Elsie." "He? Who? Do you mean Lauchie McKitterick or Sawed-Off Wilmott, or Sandy McQuarry, or whom do you mean, Arabella Winters?"
"O, and it's whippity-whoppity too, And how I'd love to sing to you, I'd laugh and sing With joy and glee, If Mistress McQuarry would marry me, If Mistress McQuarry would marry me!" The last line was fairly shouted in a way that showed the singer was anxious to be heard. "Tom's trying to outsing the robins," cried John Coulson, pulling up his horses. Mr.
"I suppose it was Sandy McQuarry, when he put the mill here." "How did he do it?" "He dammed the creek." "Oh, and who made the crick?" "It was always there." "Yes, but who made it in the first place?" No answer. "Was it God?" "I I suppose so." "Oh, ain't you dead sure? Who could it 'a' been, then?" Still silence. "Was it God?" "Yes." Tim looked surprised.
"What are you going to do about it, then?" Sandy McQuarry glared. "Ah'm goin' to drive on," he declared grimly. "Indeed!" Miss Weir placed her basket exactly in the middle of the road, carefully adjusted her shawl over it, and, with perfect deliberation, sat down upon it. "Hoh!" Sandy McQuarry grunted disdainfully. He could soon scare even the Duke of Wellington out of such an untenable position.
John McIntyre, still dressed in the fine black suit Martin had given him for the wedding, was slowly walking up the old swamp road toward the ravine. The festivities of the day, and the gracious manner of the Duke, had so wrought upon Sandy McQuarry that he had, in a moment of reckless extravagance, bidden his watchman take a rest that night, instead of returning to the mill.
Now it had a couple of crazy windows cut crookedly into its sides and a stovepipe thrust up, also crookedly, through the shake roof, and was known as the McQuarry place. Here one might count on finding Swen Brodie at such times as he favoured Coloma with his hulking presence; here foregathered his hangers-on.
"Lookee 'ere, Sandy," said Silas Long solemnly, "criticizin' the minister is next thing to criticizin' the Almighty. You'd better take a warnin'." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It ain't safe, Sandy, now, that's wot it ain't." Sandy McQuarry grunted scornfully.
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