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I tried to postpone my reply, and at the same time to satisfy another curiosity. “Have you ever told Mrs. Delane about—about him?”
Now Faith didn’t care anything about Dan,——except the quiet attachment that she couldn’t help, from living in the house with him, and he’d always petted and made much of her, and dressed her like a doll,——he wasn’t the kind of man to take her fancy; she’d have maybe liked some slender, smooth-faced chap; but Dan was a black, shaggy fellow, with shoulders like the cross-tree, and a length of limb like Saul’s, and eyes set deep, like lamps in caverns. And he had a great, powerful heart,——and, oh! how it was lost! for she might have won it, she might have made him love her, since I would have stood wide away and aside for the sake of seeing him happy. But Faith was one of those that, if they can’t get what they want, haven’t any idea of putting up with what they have,——God forgive me, if I am hard on the child! And she couldn’t give Dan an answer right off, but was loath to think of it, and went flirting about among the other boys; and Dan, when he saw she wasn’t so easily gotten, perhaps set more value on her. For Faith, she grew prettier every day; her great brown eyes were so soft and clear, and had a wide, sorrowful way of looking at you; and her cheeks, that were usually pale, blossomed to roses when you spoke to her, her hair drooping over them dark and silky; and though she was slack and untidy and at loose ends about her dress, she somehow always seemed like a princess in disguise; and when she had on anything new,——a sprigged calico and her little straw bonnet with the pink ribbons and Mrs. Devereux’s black scarf, for instance,——you’d have allowed that she might have been daughter to the Queen of Sheba. I don’t know, but I rather think Dan wouldn’t have said any more to Faith, from various motives, you see, notwithstanding the neighbors were still remonstrating with him, if it hadn’t been that Miss Brown——she that lived round the corner there; the town’s well quit of her now, poor thing!——went to saying the same stuff to Faith, and telling her all that other folks said. And Faith went home in a passion,——some of your timid kind nothing ever abashes, and nobody gets to the windward of them,——and, being perfectly furious, fell to accusing Dan of having brought her to this, so that Dan actually believed he had, and was cut to the quick with contrition, and told her that all the reparation he could make he was waiting and wishing to make, and then there came floods of tears. Some women seem to have set out with the idea that life’s a desert for them to cross, and they’ve laid in a supply of water-bags accordingly, but it’s the meanest weapon! And then, again, there’s men that are iron, and not to be bent under calamities, that these tears can twist round your little finger. Well, I suppose Faith concluded ’t was no use to go hungry because her bread wasn’t buttered on both sides, but she always acted as if she’d condescended ninety degrees in marrying Dan, and Dan always seemed to feel that he’d done her a great injury; and there it was.
"He is dead!" he cried, with a groan. "No, not dead, God forgive me! but dying there alone, and him the finest swordsman I ever stood beside."
“Miss Marvell? She has been here?”
How exasperating it must be to possess a temperament that can accept only part of what is admirable! It seems to me that Walford Davies distrusts his intellect: in estimating the worth of music, he seems to say, intellectual standards, artistic standards, are of no value. To him the only sure test is temperamental affinity. And he wishes all temperaments to conform to his own limitations.
Indeed, silence seemed to be at a premium in these exciting times. Every block had apparently been well oiled so that when the ropes pulled through there would be no squeaking to announce the fact. Smaller things than this have betrayed the presence of a boat to lurking foes;
The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was his second in command, very excited. "What is it?" Hatcher demanded.
However, these remarks relate only to two famous writers on the subjects with which this History is concerned. If the work had been brought to a close with the year 1850 instead of 1860, I should hardly have found it necessary to give them so prominent a position in it. Their names are Charles Darwin and Karl Nägeli. I would desire that whoever reads what I have written on Charles Darwin in the present work should consider that it contains a large infusion of youthful enthusiasm still remaining from the year 1859, when the ‘Origin of Species’ delivered us from the unlucky dogma of constancy. Darwin’s later writings have not inspired me with the like feeling. So it has been with regard to Nägeli. He, like Hugo von Mohl, was one of the first among German botanists who introduced into the study that strict method of thought which had long prevailed in physics, chemistry, and astronomy; but the researches of the last ten or twelve years have unfortunately shown that Nägeli’s method has been applied to facts which, as facts, were inaccurately observed. Darwin collected innumerable facts from the literature in support of an idea, Nägeli applied his strict logic to observations which were in part untrustworthy. The services which each of these men rendered to the science are still
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