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Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m

2023-11-28 21:34:31 [music] source:All kinds of troubles

"Nonsense; two days is a long delay without the excuse of a blockade. Go to the telephone, please."

Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m

"The telephone was broken yesterday, you know."

Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m

"I had forgotten. Well, one of the girls must go; I can't stand it any longer."

Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I’m

"You can't send any of the girls in such weather; both the maids have terrible colds, and Mary would not go if you asked her. Listen! It is frightful. I promise to go in the morning if we don't get a letter, but we probably shall. Let us play checkers for a while." With a forced stoicism she essayed to distract her mother's thoughts, but with poor success. The wretched afternoon drew to a close; and immediately after a show of dining, Mrs. Levice went to bed. At Ruth's suggestion she took some headache medicine.

"It will make me sleep, perhaps; and that will be better than worrying awake and unable to do anything."

The opiate soon had its effect; and with a sigh of relief Ruth heard her mother's regular breathing. It was now her turn to suffer openly the fox-wounds. Louis had said she would hear to-night; but at what time? It was now eight o'clock, and the bell might ring at any moment. Mrs. Levice slept; and Ruth sat dry-eyed and alert, feeling her heart rise to her throat every time the windows shook or the doors rattled. It was one of the wildest nights San Francisco ever experienced; trees groaned, gates slammed, and a perfect war of the elements was abroad. The wailing wind about the house haunted her like the desolate cry of some one begging for shelter. The ormolu clock ticked on and chimed forth nine. Still her mother slept. Ruth from her chair could see that her cheeks were unnaturally flushed and that her breathing was hurried; but any degree of oblivion was better than the impatient outlook for menacing tidings. Despite the heated room, her hands grew cold, and she wrapped them in the fleecy shawl that enveloped her. The action brought to her mind the way her father used to tuck her little hands under the coverlet when a child, after they had clung around his neck in a long good-night, and how no sooner were they there than out they would pop for "just one squeeze more, Father;" how long the good-nights were with this play! She had never called him "papa" like other children, but he had always liked it best so. She brushed a few drops from her lashes as the sweet little chimer rang out ten bells; she began to grow heart-sick with her thoughts; her limbs ached with stiffness, and she began a gentle walk up and down the room. Would it keep up all night? There! surely somebody was crunching up the gravel-walk. With one look at her sleeping mother, she quickly left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. With a palpitating heart she leaned over the balustrade; was it a false alarm, after all? The next instant there was a violent pull at the bell, as startling in the dead of the night as some supernatural summons. Before Ruth could hurry down, Nora, looking greatly bewildered, came out of her room and rushed to the door. In a trice she was back again with the telegram and had put it into Ruth's hands.

"Fifteen cents' charges," she said.

As the maid turned away, she tore open the envelope. Before she could open the form, a firm hand was placed upon hers.

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