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“Isobel, play one of your pieces, let’s see how your recital helped you to-day.” As that long-suffering Mrs. Wopp wiped up the last traces of the chase she observed, “Moses’ footprints is twict as big as Betty’s, but hern is twict as many. They’ll shore git inter jist as much mischief, but Praise be! They’re both toein’ in the right d’rection.” “We left him by the creek, Ma, playing in the sand,” was the reply. “When Betty and me tried to make him come in he slapped us.”.

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Edith had quickly put her plan in execution, aided by the willing newspapers; but so far nothing had come of it, and mother and daughter feared their charge had lost more than aunt and cousin. South America, a very definite spot in the child’s mind, was still too vague a postoffice address for even Uncle Sam’s marvellous mail-carrying; and so, while encouraging May Nell, the two women tacitly adopted her into their hearts and discussed her future as if she were their own. “This shore has been a toilin’ day fer me,” sighed Mrs. Wopp, as she opened the oven door and revealed a tempting array of loaves, their brown domes swelling up and over the sides of shining black pans. “Was it dark for Joner inside the whale?” asked Pete Stolway, who noted his father viewing him through the gaping curtain and wished to appear in earnest conversation with his instructor. “Look he’s been here,” said Betty, pointing to a small footprint in the moist soil, “An’ he’s headed down the crick.”.