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Then Lethway joined them. London was not kind to him. He had felt, like many Canadians, that in going to England he was going home. But England was cold. Not the people on the streets. They liked the Canadians and they cheered them when their own regiments went by unhailed.

"I was," he says in the last edition of these tales, "the most unknown author in America". Full of glancing wit, of tender satire, of exquisite natural description, of subtle and strange analysis of human life, darkly passionate and weird, they yet floated unhailed barks upon the sea of publicity unhailed, but laden and gleaming at every crevice with the true treasure of Cathay.

"Ain't it awful?" a graybeard would whisper to a stripling youth. "Ain't it terrible?" would come the reply. "Well, well, well! Old Isom!" That was as far as any of them could go. Then they would walk softly, scarcely breathing, to the window and peep in again. Joe, unhailed and undisturbed, was spinning out his sleep. Mrs.

If we may judge by the number and frequency of editions, most of the indefatigable scribbler's tales found a ready sale, while the best of them, such as "Idalia" , "The Fatal Secret" , "The Mercenary Lover" , "The Fruitless Enquiry" and "Philidore and Placentia" , gained for her not a little applause. Nor was the young adventuress in letters unhailed by literary men.

On the one hand, he let Gratian's mysterious and stealthy assassins stifle him and the other, Césarine, run to the railroad station unhailed. The one deserved death as the other deserved oblivion.

From out the sea Aurora rose With none to hail her then; The sun unhailed, at daylight's close, In ocean sank again. In forests wild, man went astray, Misled by Luna's cloudy ray He bore an iron yoke; He pined not for the stars on high, With yearning for a deity No tears in torrents broke.

So the black-hatted giant with the silver staff strode into the wide shed, the puffy-cheeked band reading their music and feeling for foothold as they followed, and just yonder behind them, in the middle of the white way, untouched by all those fathers, unhailed by any brother of his own, came Hilary Kincaid with all the battery at his neat heels, its files tightly serried but its platoons in open order, each flashing its sabres to a "present" on nearing the General and back to a "carry" when he was passed, and then lengthening into column of files to enter the blessed shade of the station.

Gerald and Aurora crossed the room unhailed and entered the room beyond, where dusty canvases, many deep, stood face to the wall. He found the unframed painting of his mother and placed it on the easel. The short winter day was waning, but near the window where the easel stood there was still light enough to see by. Aurora looked a long time without saying anything; Gerald did not speak either.