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"Keep hold of that," whispered Crene, and a yoke of oxen could not have drawn it from me. "You are sure you had it marked for Fontdale," says Mr. Baggage-master. I hold the impracticable check before his eyes in silence. "Yes, well, it must have gone on to Albany." "But it went away on that track," says Crene. "Couldn't have gone on that track.
But Crene is not to be asserted into yielding one inch, and insists that the trunk went to Vermont and not to New York, and is thoroughly unmanageable. The baggage-master, in anguish of soul, trots out his subordinates, one after another, "Is this the man that wheeled the trunk away? Is this? Is this?"
"It was lost here last night," continues Crene, in a soliloquizing undertone, pushing investigating glances beneath the sofas. "I do' know nothin' about it. I 'a'n't took it"; and the Gnome tosses her head back defiantly. "I seen the lady when she was a-writin' of her letter, and when she went out ther' wa'n't nothin' left on the table but a hangkerchuf, and that wa'n't hern.
The Irish Celtae also called a round stone 'clogh crene', where the variation is merely dialectic. Hence, too, our crane-berries, i.e., round berries, from this Celtic adjective 'crene', round. The quotations from Scripture in Aram's original MS. were both in the Hebrew character, and their value in English sounds.
The brawny-armed fellows hang back, and scowl, and muffle words in a very suspicious manner, and protest they won't be got into a scrape. But Crene has no scrape for them. She cannot swear to their identity. She had eyes only for the trunk. "Well," says Baggager, at his wits' end, "you let me take your check, and I'll send the trunk on by express, when it comes." I pity him, and relax my clutch.
It is as much as your life is worth to ask these people about lost articles. They take it for granted at the first blush that you mean to accuse them of stealing. "Have you seen a brown veil lying about anywhere?" asked Crene, her sweet bird-voice warbling out from her sweet rose-lips. "No, I 'a'n't seen nothin' of it," says Gnome, with magnificent indifference.
The brawny-armed fellows hang back, and scowl, and muffle words in a very suspicious manner, and protest they won't be got into a scrape. But Crene has no scrape for them. She cannot swear to their identity. She had eyes only for the trunk. "Well," says Baggage-man, at his wits' end, "you let me take your check, and I'll send the trunk on by express, when it comes."
I pity him, and relax my clutch. "No," whispers Crene; "as long as you have your check, you as good as have your trunk; but when you give that up, you have nothing. Keep that till you see your trunk." My clutch re-tightens. "At any rate, you can wait till the next train, and see if it doesn't come back. You'll get to your journey's end just as soon." "Shall I? Well, I will," compliant as usual.
It is as much as your life is worth to ask these people about lost articles. They take it for granted at the first blush that you mean to accuse them of stealing. "Have you seen a brown veil lying about anywhere?" asked Crene, her sweet bird-voice warbling out from her sweet rose-lips. "No, I 'a'n't seen nothin' of it," says Gnome, with magnificent indifference.
It is a dismal day, and Crene, to comfort me, puts into my hands two books as companions by the way. They are Coventry Patmore's "Angel in the House," "The Espousals and the Betrothal." I do not approve of reading in the cars; but without is a dense, white, unvarying fog, and within my heart it is not clear sunshine. So I turn to my books. Did any one ever read them before?
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