"Devil!" cried the widow, catching his arm, and gazing with frantic eagerness in his face, "how many years will you give my son before you execute your terrible threat?" "NINE!" answered Jonathan sternly. “To my chagrin, I have. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. "I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell. "Your faults were the faults of circumstances. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that.
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