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“You keep still, Betsey! I’m going to watch!” he exclaimed, as if some one had spoken. There they all were; those who had come first to the house, and many others: Jean, Bess Carter, Charley Strong, Max Krieber, Jackson Carter, the little colored boy, standing aloof, and others, large and small. All in a line they stood, and shouted up at him: A whoop startled her and she turned to see a handsome boy racing up on a brown pony, also carrying a basket..

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“No matter, Billy. I think she was sent to us; and we shall find a way. Are the chickens fed?” “You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?” Mrs. Mifsud, however, had seemingly heard not a word of the story. In her distress she forgot that Mrs. Wopp was decidedly plebeian in her conversation and otherwise hopelessly unfashionable; all these discrepancies vanished from her mind, and leaning over on the ample bosom, she wept copiously. Mrs. Wopp patted her in a motherly way. “One touch o’ nater makes the hull world a-kin,” she whispered, “Hearten up, Mis’ Mifsud, Moses ’ll find yer little lamb. That boy seems slow, but all’s not gold that’s a-glitterin’. He’s shorely got a nose fer findin’ things. Our black carf got lost on the prairie one day an’ he found it arter everybody else hed giv’ up huntin’.” “Awfully hard, Billy. Some of them had ‘grief swimming in their eyes.’”.