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Smith, Francis Hopkinson, 1838-1915

"Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero"


"When?" asked Jack, his eager eyes on the opening door.
"Now, this very minute. I never keep anything from daddy."
MacFarlane came sauntering in, his strong, determined, finely cut
features illumined by a cheery smile. He had squared things with
himself while he had been dressing: "Hard lines, Henry, isn't it?"
he had asked of himself, a trick of his when he faced any disaster
like the present. "Better get Ruth off somewhere, Henry, don't you
think so? Yes, get her off to-morrow. The little girl can't stand
everything, plucky as she is." It was this last thought of his
daughter that had sent the cheery smile careering around his firm
lips. No glum face for Ruth!
They met him half-way down the room, the two standing together,
Jack's arm around her waist.
"Daddy!"
"Yes, dear." He had not yet noted the position of the two,
although he had caught the joyous tones in her voice.
"Jack and I want to tell you something. You won't be cross, will
you?"
"Cross, Puss!" He stopped and looked at her wonderingly.


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