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Updated: July 4, 2025
And she has been content and happy ever since." What more of this tale there is to tell shall be told, reader, by excerpts from our hero's Christmas letter to thin little Mrs Seaford, as follows: "Pardon my seeming neglect, dear old friend. I meant to have run up to town to see you the instant I set foot in England, but you must admit that my dear, long-lost mother had prior claims.
"Anywhere!" answered Hulda, not afraid of cold or nature, so intense had become her fear of men and women. "Still, where? I might go to Cannon's Ferry and tell my tale to those hard-hearted merchants, or to Seaford and beg a shelter somewhere there; but first I will try our old cottage home again."
Leonard murmured something, blushed up to the ears, and subsided, but the simple, single-hearted Mr. Seaford, his soul all on one object, his experience only in one groove, by no means laid aside the thought, and the moment he was out of Leonard's presence, eagerly asked who that young man was. 'Leonard Ward? he is he is the son of an old friend, replied Dr.
And did you really never hear of the Blewer murder, and of Leonard Ward? Mr. Seaford had some compound edifice of various murders in his mind, and required full enlightenment. Having heard the whole, he was ardent to repair his mistake, both for Leonard's own sake, and that of his cause.
The pen had fallen from Piggy's hand, and left a little scrawl across the letter he had been writing. The character was flourishing, self-complacent, and, above all, easy to read. It was written in French, and ran, translated, Sire, I have to inform your Majesty that Sunday dawn I was lying off Seaford Head, waiting to escort the lugger Kite, according to your Majesty's instructions.
Down deep within its hold Will there be bags of gold, Or sparkling gems untold, All, all for me? Now my heart cries to thee; Bring not from o'er the sea Bright glitt'ring gems for me, nor bags of gold. I'd rather have a heart, Mine from all else apart, From him I'd never part, Love's more than gold." Little Sprite Seaford had learned the song in her home by the sea.
He says that the register of deaths of military men proves that more than eight times as many men fall by what was called the gaol fever as by battle. His suggestions are eminently wise. Lord Seaford, in 1835, told Leslie 'that he remembered dining in company with Dr. Johnson at Dr. Brocklesby's, when he was a boy of twelve or thirteen.
Little Sprite Seaford sat in the first car of the long train, her eyes bright with excitement, a tear on her cheek, and her red lips quivering. One little hand nervously clutched her handkerchief, while the other grasped the handles of her very new suitcase.
She clasped, and unclasped her nervous hands. And when at last the teacher went to the board just back of her desk and wrote: "Sprite Seaford, Prize winner," Sprite leaned back in her seat, pale, and almost breathless. For a moment not a sound broke the silence. Sprite stared at the written words as if half stunned with surprise.
"Why, Sprite Seaford!" cried Rose. "How did you dare to send fifty dollars in gold?" "Because," said Sprite, "I didn't send it by mail. I gave it to one of the very best men in this world, and that is Uncle John, to take it to pa for me, and he did. He rode over to Cliffmore last Saturday. That's a week ago, and don't you know it was a stormy day? Well, that's why we didn't go with him."
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