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Billy slipped quickly to cover again where he could watch unseen. The men’s faces were black with passion, and their low, intense words seemed all the more deadly because strange, foreign. A coat split down the back with a ripping report, and the boy saw the flash of a knife, and turned away feeling sick. The divining woman looked into May Nell’s beautiful eyes, too deep and thoughtful for her slender body; drew her close and kissed her. “Yes, dear, just the nicest sort of work for a little girl. You may hull these strawberries; and if you eat some for toll I shan’t be looking.” “How much will you pay fer them fer my missionary box?” bargained the child. “Will four shinin’ new quarters do?”.

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“Why doesn’t the Gang come, mamma?” he asked, returning the kiss he knew was one ahead for his natal day. It was May Nell who first broke the silence. She had been thinking. “It isn’t so very bad to have to work, is it? Your mama looks happier than my mama does. She said she’d rather wear calico and work ever so hard, and have papa at home, than be the richest, richest without him. She cries a lot—my mama does. And now—she’s crying—for me.” The last word was a sob. “It’s been the best ever,” Jean said, happily. “Gosh!” he exclaimed, as Isobel closed on the last startlingly unexpected note, “that’s where some feller planks his strawr hat on a beauty butterfly!”.