Bob, Son of Battle by Alfred Ollivant
page 79 of 317 (24%)
page 79 of 317 (24%)
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In the drawer he searched with feverish fingers, and produced at length a little paper packet wrapped about with a stained yellow ribbon. It was the ribbon she haa used to weave on Sundays into her soft hair. Inside the packet was a cheap, heart-shaped frame, and in it a photograph. Up there it was too dark to see. The little man ran down the stairs, Red Wull jostling him as he went, and hurried to the window in the kitchen. It was a sweet, laughing face that looked up at him from the frame, demure yet arch, shy yet roguish--a face to look at and a face to love. As he looked a wintry smile, wholly tender, half tearful, stole over the little man's face. "Lassie," he whispered, and his voice was infinitely soft, "it's lang sin' I've daured look at ye. But it's no that ye're forgotten, deane." Then he covered his eyes with his hand as though he were blinded. "Dinna look at me sae, lass!" he cried, and fell on his knees, kissing the picture, hugging it to him and sobbing passionately. Red Wull came up and pushed his face compassionately into his master's; but the little man shoved him roughly away, and the dog |
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