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Updated: June 25, 2025
Long, long ago, when Our Street was the country a stagecoach between us and London passing four times a day I do not care to own that it was a sight of Flora Cammysole's face, under the card of her mamma's "Lodgings to Let," which first caused me to become a tenant of Our Street. She has made a fine rich marriage since, although her eyes have often seemed to me to say, "Ah, Mr.
"She doesn't need telling," responded Champe, going toward the door; and he added as they went together down the stair, "She always understands without words, somehow." Dan followed him into the yard, and watched him, from under the oaks beside the empty stagecoach, as he mounted and rode away.
And do you think I've been driving that stagecoach hell-bent from here to beyond because I'd no other way to kill time? Wasn't another darned man in the outfit I'd trust, that's why. If I take the Indians back, I've got to have some real boys." Luck's voice was plaintive, and a little bit desperate. "Well, dammit, have your real boys! I never said you shouldn't.
Amanda gave a timidly curious glance at her; she wondered if she had seen the purple gown. Then she started, for the village stagecoach was seen driving around to the front of the house. The house stood on a corner. "Here, Amanda, you look better than I do; you go and meet her," said Sophia. "I'll just put the cake in the pan and get it in the oven and I'll come. Show her right up to her room."
"Do sit down," she urged. "It is a long walk from the port." "You said it! And after riding over from Paulmouth in that dinky old stagecoach, too," went on the stranger, as though holding Sheila responsible for some measure of her discomfort. "Say, ain't the folks home?" She cast a sour look around the premises. "Gee! It's a lonesome place in winter, I bet." "Did you wish to see Mrs.
There were long spaces of time when she sat huddled in the corner of her seat, with her face turned from them, and never said a word. But the nearer the rumbling old stagecoach approached the promised land of Briarwood Hall the more excited Ruth and Helen became. They gazed out of the open windows of the coach doors and thought the country through which they traveled ever so pretty.
What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could never relate. On that day week, amply provided with all necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading. Mrs.
Andrew Carnegie has acted on the times, and the times have acted on him. He is a product a child, if you please of Opportunity and Divine Energy. When James Anderson, of Allegheny, Pennsylvania, stagecoach boss and ironmaster, about the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty threw open his library to the public, he did a great thing. Anderson owned four or five hundred books.
"It was then summer, and the weather very fine; so pleased was I with the country, in which I had never travelled before, that my delight proved equal to my wonder." There are few pleasures in life equal to that of riding on the box-seat of a stagecoach, through a country unknown to you and hearing the driver talk about his horses.
It was just the driver of the stagecoach, returned to see what had become of her. He had feared to find her stricken down in the road, and when he saw her clinging alone and in a maddened way to this tree, he made no bones of speaking to her with all necessary plainness. "I asked you if it was Missus Brown you had come to see," he called to her through the din. "And you wouldn't answer."
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