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Updated: March 28, 2025
P. S. The most beautiful poetry I think I ever saw begins: "She's gone to dwell in Heaven, my lassie, She's gone to dwell in Heaven: Ye're ow're pure quo' a voice aboon For dwalling out of Heaven." It is not the words, but the thoughts. I hope you have read it, as I know you would admire it.
The hummed song went on "'Tw s on a s m r aftern n, A wee be re the s n w nt d n, When Kitty wi' a braw n w g wn C me ow're the h lls to Gowrie." Elizabeth-Jane had apprehended the singer in a moment, and looked guilty of she did not know what. Lucetta next recognized him, and more mistress of herself said archly, "The 'Lass of Gowrie' from inside of a seed-drill what a phenomenon!"
Upon one occasion, in reply to some of his self upbraidings, she said, "I think, Robert, you're ow're hard on yoursel' now, when ye tak the blame o' puir Susie's death; ye surely canna think itherwise than the dear bairn's time had come; an' had we bided at hame it would ha' been a' the same; for we dinna leeve an' dee by chance, and the bounds o' our lives are set by Him who kens a' things."
"Never mind," answered Jack stoutly; "he won't interfere with us." The man, who had reeled into the hedge, suddenly staggered back into the middle of the road, and stood there barring the way. "'Ello! Misser Fenleigh," he began, "'ow're you to-night, sir?" Jack stared at the speaker in astonishment, and then recognized him as the same man who had spoken to them in Melchester.
You may cut off this part of my letter, and show the other to Uncle Richard. Do write me some letters in skimmed milk. I must conclude, as I am in a "monstrous hurry"! Your affectionate brother, P. S. The most beautiful poetry I think I ever saw begins: "She 'a gone to dwell in Heaven, my lassie, She's gone to dwell in Heaven: Ye're ow're pure quo' a voice aboon For dwalling out of Heaven."
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