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“St. Elmo’s lost, Ma,” wailed Maria. “We can’t find him and he’s wandered down the creek.” Mrs. Wopp was much too energetically engaged to enter into fuller argument. She busied herself preparing the tubs for rinsing, singing in a high tremolo, “Shall we gather at the river?” “Three you should say. Don’t you live in the dreamland of music? Eat your own breakfast, or you’ll be late for the train.”.
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St. Elmo’s face brightened with intelligence. He broke into the story to give a graphic account of how a little yellow chicken of his sister’s had got “dwownded” in the pig-trough. “Wotcher want, Nosey?” Mrs. Wopp’s voice, a dramatic outburst before which almost any cloud would have quailed, filled the bedroom. Betty turned to Nell Gordon, “I hope all yer clouds’ll hev silver linin’s, Miss Gordon,” she smiled. She was happy and the time passed unnoticed till she had finished, and put the food back in the pail, when a queer, dizzy feeling came upon her and she sank down on one of the rugs..
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