The Battle Ground by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow
page 35 of 470 (07%)
page 35 of 470 (07%)
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mother's smile.
"You're my grandfather, and I'm very hungry," he said. The Major caught the child's shoulders and drew him, almost roughly, under the light. As he towered there above him, he gulped down something in his throat, and his wide nostrils twitched. "So you're poor Jane's boy?" he said at last. The boy nodded. He felt suddenly afraid of the spare old man with his long Roman nose and his fierce black eyebrows. A mist gathered before his eyes and the lamp shone like a great moon in a cloudy circle. The Major looked at the bundle on the floor, and again he swallowed. Then he stooped and picked up the thing and turned away. "Come in, sir, come in," he said in a knotty voice. "You are at home." The boy followed him, and they passed the panelled parlour, from which he caught a glimpse of the painting of Great-aunt Emmeline, and went into the dining room, where his grandfather pulled out a chair and bade him to be seated. As the old man opened the huge mahogany sideboard and brought out a shoulder of cold lamb and a plate of bread and butter, he questioned him with a quaint courtesy about his life in town and the details of his journey. "Why, bless my soul, you've walked two hundred miles," he cried, stopping on his way from the pantry, with the ham held out. "And no money! Why, bless my soul!" "I had fifty cents," said the boy, "that was left from my steamboat fare, |
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