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The work on the dam had gone smoothly since Mr. Whitney had taken the job over. Except for minor accidents, nothing really bothersome had happened to delay the work in any way, yet Bob, who was now constantly with the Chief, realized that something was bothering the man he was so fond of. Gone was the half chummy, half paternal air of Mr. Whitney. He was irritable and not at all himself.,

“We’d better hurry back,” he said, “and send someone after the Greaser. He’s dangerous.” And without further words the two set forth.,

“Reflection from the fire box of an engine on the smoke that passes over. The reason it comes in flashes is that it only shows when the fireman opens the door to pitch on another scoop of coal. Yes, there it is again!” They plodded on, much encouraged.,

“I meant particularly at school.”

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These sorrowful reflections caused her many tears; the Frog, who truly loved her, seeing her cry like this, said to her one day: "If you would like me to do so, madam, I will go and find the King, your husband; the journey is long, and I travel but slowly; but, sooner or later, I shall hope to arrive." This proposal could not have been more warmly received than it was; the Queen clasped her hands, and made Moufette clasp hers too, in sign of the gratitude she felt towards Madam Frog, for offering to undertake the journey. She assured her that the King also would not be ungrateful; "but," she continued, "of what use will it be to him to know that I am in this melancholy abode; it will be impossible for him to deliver me from it?" "Madam," replied the Frog, "we must leave that to Heaven; we can only do that which depends on ourselves.",

The interest which these mysterious circumstances excited in the mind of Julia, had withdrawn her attention from a subject more dangerous to its peace. The image of Vereza, notwithstanding, would frequently intrude upon her fancy; and, awakening the recollection of happy emotions, would call forth a sigh which all her efforts could not suppress. She loved to indulge the melancholy of her heart in the solitude of the woods. One evening she took her lute to a favorite spot on the seashore, and resigning herself to a pleasing sadness, touched some sweet and plaintive airs. The purple flush of evening was diffused over the heavens. The sun, involved in clouds of splendid and innumerable hues, was setting o'er the distant waters, whose clear bosom glowed with rich reflection. The beauty of the scene, the soothing murmur of the high trees, waved by the light air which overshadowed her, and the soft shelling of the waves that flowed gently in upon the shores, insensibly sunk her mind into a state of repose. She touched the chords of her lute in sweet and wild melody, and sung the following ode:,

“You bet,” was the heartfelt answer. “I thought you were a goner sure. But where is the boat?”,

At the far edge of a group stood Lars Berget, who swung his hat in the air and ventured a faint, “Hurrah!” No one joined in it, however, for they bethought them of Uncle Isaac.