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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Och, she'll pe peing a coot poy today," returned the tremulous voice of a grey headed old man, who was leaning over a small peat fire on the hearth, sifting oatmeal through the fingers of his left hand into a pot, while he stirred the boiling mess with a short stick held in his right.
"Yes, my name is Lindau," he said, slowly, while he scanned March's face. Then he broke into a long cry. "Ah-h-h-h-h, my dear poy! my gong friendt! my-my Idt is Passil Marge, not zo? Ah, ha, ha, ha! How gladt I am to zee you! Why, I am gladt! And you rememberdt me? You remember Schiller, and Goethe, and Uhland? And Indianapolis? You still lif in Indianapolis? It sheers my hardt to zee you.
You can have mine, and keep it," said Mabberly, handing to the delighted boy a large buck-horn-handled knife, which bristled with appliances. "An' don't try it on again," said Ian. "Here iss pait for you, my poy." A few minutes more, and the lines were down, and expectation was breathlessly rampant.
"He's the proper person to do it," replied Coble; "the more so, as you may say that he's his natural enemy." "Yes, mein Got, de poy is de man," said Jansen. "We'll put him up to it at all events, as soon as he is out of his hammock," rejoined Jemmy Ducks.
"Weel, daddy, gien ye cud lo'e me sae weel, kennin' me nae bluid's bluid o' yer ain I canna help it: I maun lo'e ye mair nor ever, noo' at I ken 't tu. Daddy, daddy, I had nae claim upo' ye, an' ye hae been father an' gran'father an' a' to me!" "What could she do, Malcolm, my poy? Ta chilt had no one, and she had no one, and so it wass. You must pe her own poy after all!
"Tonal', poy, what iss it that Muster Archie wull pe doin'?" "I think he wull pe takin' the hoose!" They had not time to make further inquiry, for just then the wind changed and blew the flames towards the part of the mansion that had been already burned, giving some hope that the other parts might yet be saved, and calling for the redoubled efforts of all hands.
At that moment Angus Macdonald appeared upon the scene. His look of amazement at beholding his son may be imagined. Angus was not, however, demonstrative. He only stepped across the fire, and gave Ian a crushing squeeze of the hand. "It iss fery glad to see you I am, my poy, but it is taken py surprise I am, whatever. An' ho!" Well, it iss a happy father you will pe this night, Mr Ruvnshaw.
"Yes, I am shure you prings me shome news ash ish goot." "Father, father," said Tite, advancing with his right hand extended, "you don't know me?" "Ton't know mine own Tite? Mine poor poy Tite!" exclaimed the old man in a paroxysm of joy. "Yes I does." And he raised his hands, and threw his arms around Tite's neck, and wept for joy.
I learns you, my poy, you shtays ven I vants to shpeak mit you." Supposing from this authoritative address that he was the father of the boy who had been guilty of some wrong, the man who had helped him passed on his way, leaving him to deal with the culprit as he saw fit.
"Just du Tillet himself summed up in a word!" cried Couture. "'Those that do not know her may think her plain, pursued du Tillet, 'but she has character, I admit. "'Und ein herz, dot is the pest of die pizness, mein der poy; she vould make you an indelligent und defoted vife.
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