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Selected Stories of Bret Harte by Bret Harte
page 37 of 413 (08%)
once before been delivered unto us.

We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. The Judge, in
particular, vacated his position quickly, as the voice seemed to come
directly over his shoulder. The cause, however, was soon discovered in
a large magpie who was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, and
who immediately relapsed into a sepulchral silence which contrasted
singularly with his previous volubility. It was, undoubtedly, his voice
which we had heard in the road, and our friend in the chair was not
responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba Bill, who re-entered the room
after an unsuccessful search, was loath to accept the explanation, and
still eyed the helpless sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in
which he had put up his horses, but he came back dripping and skeptical.
"Thar ain't nobody but him within ten mile of the shanty, and that 'ar
damned old skeesicks knows it."

But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. Bill had
scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick step upon the porch,
the trailing of a wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with flash of
white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter absence of ceremony or
diffidence, a young woman entered, shut the door, and, panting, leaned
back against it.

"Oh, if you please, I'm Miggles!"

And this was Miggles! this bright-eyed, full-throated young woman, whose
wet gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the beauty of the feminine
curves to which it clung; from the chestnut crown of whose head, topped
by a man's oilskin sou'wester, to the little feet and ankles, hidden
somewhere in the recesses of her boy's brogans, all was grace--this was
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