Genre Fiction. Page - 202

ice was sharpened as from anxiety. "Won't you come and see him about the petrol?"He looked at her curiously. The smile had gone from her lips, and her face was pale. She was frowning, and in her eyes there showed unmistakable fear. She was not looking at him, and his gaze followed the direction of hers. The driver had come out of the shed, the same dark, aquiline-featured man as had passed him on the bridge. He had stopped and was staring at Merriman with an intense regard in which

House of Coombe who asked the first question about her."What will you DO with her?" he inquired detachedly. The frequently referred to "babe unborn" could not have presented a gaze of purer innocence than did the lovely Feather. Her eyes of larkspur blueness were clear of any thought or intention as spring water is clear at its unclouded best. Her ripple of a laugh was clear also--enchantingly clear. "Do!" repeated. "What is it people 'do' with babies? I

rd and dusted with his own hands every morning before varnishing his boots) I notice him as full of thought and care as full can be and frowning in a fearful manner, but indeed the Major does nothing by halves as witness his great delight in going out surveying with Jemmy when he has Jemmy to go with, carrying a chain and a measuring-tape and driving I don't know what improvements right through Westminster Abbey and fully believed in the streets to be knocking everything upside down by Act of

the go-horse was in position, and thus steadied it admirably with this hint taken direct from the workmanship of the Great Carpenter.There came a day when the horse was finished and the last coat of paint had dried smooth and hard. That evening, when Nebby came running to meet Zacchy, he was aware of his Grandfather's voice in the dusk, shouting:--"Whoa, Mare! Whoa, Mare!" followed immediately by the cracking of a whip. Nebby shrilled out a call, and raced on, mad with excitement,

father said, pressing the fingers of her unoccupied hand. "Now, if you could find a clean cloth to bandage it--"She looked about the place, somewhat hopelessly. Her expedition to the main part of the house, when she had found the water pail, had not reassured her as to the housekeeping of the Eldens. Her father read her perplexity. "It seems as though you would be in charge here for awhile, Reenie," he said, "so you will save time by getting acquainted at once with your

must have some name in going about, for people to pick up," heexplained to Mugby High Street, through the Inn window, "and that name atleast was real once. Whereas, Young Jackson!--Not to mention its being asadly satirical misnomer for Old Jackson."He took up his hat and walked out, just in time to see, passing along onthe opposite side of the way, a velveteen man, carrying his day's dinnerin a small bundle that might have been larger without suspicion ofgluttony, and pelting

ained breath. "That engineer will bedown here to take charge as soon as the six o'clock stage comes in.He's an oldish chap, has got a family of two daughters, and--I--am--d----d if he is not bringing them down here with him.""Oh, go long!" exclaimed the five men in one voice, raisingthemselves on their hands and elbows, and glaring at the speaker. "Fact, boys! Soon as I found it out I just waltzed into that Jewshop at the Crossing and bought up all the clothes that

eet lightning), lest his concentrated look (the thunderbolt) should reduce the universe to ashes.... His watery parentage, and the storm-god's relationship with a swan-maiden of the Apsarasas (typifying the mists and clouds), and with Freydis the fire queen, are equally obvious: whereas Niafer is plainly a variant of Nephthys, Lady of the House, whose personality Dr. Budge sums up as 'the goddess of the death which is not eternal,' or Nerthus, the Subterranean Earth, which the warm rainstorm

ling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the further end of the room."Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him. "What's your business?" snarled Hans. "I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour." "Have the goodness to walk out

the murder was not lacking.My narrative in "The Night of Hate" is admittedly a purely theoretical account of the crime. But it is closely based upon all the known facts of incidence and of character; and if there is nothing in the surviving records that will absolutely support it, neither is there anything that can absolutely refute it. In "The Night of Masquerade" I am guilty of quite arbitrarily discovering a reason to explain the mystery of Baron Bjelke's sudden change