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'em everywhere an' drownded everybody, only just except Noah an’ the people in the ark. An' it rained forty days an' nights, an' then it stopped, an' Noah got out of the ark, an' he an' his little boys an' girls went wherever they wanted to, an' everything in the world was all theirs; there wasn't anybody to tell'em to go home, nor no kindergarten schools to go to, nor no bad boys to fight 'em, nor nothin'. Now tell us 'nother story.'

An' I want my dolly's kʼadle. Ocken Hawwy, I wants my dolly's k'adle, tause my dolly's in it, an' I wan to shee her," interrupted Toddie.

Just then came a knock at the door. “ Come in !" I shouted.

In stepped Mike, with an air of the greatest secrecy, handed me a letter and the identical box in which I had sent the flowers to Miss Mayton. What could it mean? I hastily opened the envelope, and at the same time Toddie shrieked:

“Oh! darsh my dolly's k’adle — dare tizh !” snatched and opened the box, and displayed — his doll! My heart sickened, and did not regain its strength during the perusal of the following note:

“ Miss Mayton herewith returns to Mr. Burton the package which just arrived, with his card. She recognizes the contents as a portion of the apparent property of one of Mr. Burton's nephews, but is unable to under stand why it should have been sent to her.

JUNE 20, 1875."

“ Toddie," I roared, as my younger nephew caressed nis loathsome doll, and murmured endearing words to it, “where did you get that box?"

“On the hat-wack,” replied the youth, with perfect fearlessness. I keeps it in ze book-case djawer, an’somebody took it 'way an' put nasty ole flowers in it."

“ Where are those flowers ?” I demanded.

Toddie looked up with considerable surprise, but promptly replied : “I froed em away

don't want no ole flowers in my dolly's k’adle. That's ze way she wocks — see !



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Oft and oft, when his limbs were young,
Out from its scabbard his good sword sprung ;

In castle hall, or in cot of thatch,
With Wallace of Uhlen none might match.

The brave old baron one day had heard
The peasants round by a legend stirred,
Of a ghostly lady, that watched till light
In Keidenloch Chapel every night.
So to his seneschal quoth he,
“Go watch, and tell me if such things be.'
“My lord, I'd fain take many a knock
Than watch in the Chapel of Keidenloch
I'll stand the brunt of many a fight,
But ghosts are another matter, quite."
Then up old Wallace of Uhlen stood,
And stoutly vow'd by the holy rood,

And all things holy, all things bright,
He'd watch in the chapel that very night.

With only a sword, from his castled rock
Down he strode unto Keidenloch;

And with the twilight, dusk and brown
Deep in the chapel he sat him down.

Wallace of Uhlen watched awhile
The pale moonbeams in the middle aisle,



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The glimmer of marble here and there,
The oriel painting the dusky air.
Over his feet a something drew;
“ Rats !" quoth the baron, with suaden

shoo !"
Then from the stairway's darkness bleak
Sounded a most suspicious creak.
Out from the stairway's darkness came
A creak that should put a ghost to shame.
“Spirits, I fancied, were airy matter ;
Hush !" spake the baron, “now have at her!”
Lo! the chancel was all aflame,
And past the altar the lady came.
Sank the flame with many a flicker,
Till ever the darkness seemed the thicker.
Nearer and nearer stole the maid -
A ghastly phantom - a fearful shade!
His blade old Wallace uplifted high:
“ Now which is stronger, thou or I?”
But lo ! affrighted, the lady dread
Back through the chapel turned and fled;
And hasting after with many a blow
Old Wallace of Uhlen laid her low.
He drew her into a moonlit place,
And gazed undaunted upon the face --
Gazed on the face so pale and dread,
And saw no maid, but a robber dead.
The scourge of many a fertile plain,
By Wallace of Uhlen lying slain.
So up to his castle striding back,
He pledged the ghost in a cup of sack,
And roared with laughter when from his rock
He looked to the Chapel of Keidenloch.





I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like, but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you.

I don't wish to upbraid you, neither ; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes; oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed - you think gruel will cure a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well I- I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes, when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say 'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin now.

No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world — but the cold I've got I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about it — but it has never left me. Yes, ten years ago the day before yesterday. How can I recollect it? Oh, very well; women remember things you never think of; poor souls! They've good cause to do so. Ten years ago I was sitting up for you — there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only do let me speak; ten years ago I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the keyhole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think that you meant to do it.

Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense, and to lay your ill conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife who couldn't give a good reason for it. No, I don't mean to say that you've killed me; quite the reverse. Still there's never been a day that I haven't felt that keyhole. What? Why don't I have a doctor? What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to the expense ? Besides, I dare say you'll

I dare say

do very well without me, Caudle; yes, after a very little time, you won't miss me much no man ever does.

Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day. What of it? Nothing, of course. Yes, I know she heard I was ill, and that's why she came.

A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I shan't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy now.

Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul now? Well, I do— I believe you. you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can be quiet in this bed, and think of that young woman — not, indeed, that she's near so young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle, not the least. Still I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if- well, I won't say anything more about her, but you know what I mean.

I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way, if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold ; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes — certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you.

I'd die first. Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done- a second wife never does; it isn't likely she should. And, after all, we've been very happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've ever had a word or two, for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating ; nobody can help their tempers always - especially men. Still, we've been very happy haven't we, Caudle ?

Good night. Yes, this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no it's not the shoes. I won't say it's the keyhole ; but again I say, it's not the shoes. God bless you once more.

But never say it's the shoes.


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