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“You bet!” Pretty endorsed, inelegantly. “Billy! Who could steal our little girl? I cannot think it. She’s gone with some of the children to watch the fire.” Mrs. Bennett’s words were braver than her face, for in her heart she felt Billy was right, though she wondered why. “Did you hev a good time in the city larst week, Mis’ Mifsud?” asked Mrs. Wopp, politely..

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Edith worked very hard. She called her operetta “The Triumph of Flora.” The words were her own, written hurriedly and set to familiar though classic airs. Yet many of the daintiest, most tripping melodies she wrote herself. The sorrows of humanity had winged her brain and dipped her pen in harmonies, that she might assuage them. That night when Mrs. Bennett went into the Fo’castle there was an unusual note in Billy’s voice. Vigorously all joined in the closing hymn and Mrs. Wopp’s high soprano could be heard above all the other voices. A sense of duty well performed added even greater power to the vocal billowing. “What’s the matter, Kiddie? Gee! Those big girls ought not to leave you alone with that fire; you’ll be cooked before the grub!” he grumbled while he mended the fire and propped the kettle. “Yum, yum! Things a-doin’ here. Makes a feller’s stomach feel like just before Thanksgiving dinner.”.