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"I know nothing bad of either of them," he said, in a disdainful way. "But you have no call to be in such company at your age. I shall speak to Father Urbani before I leave Rome this time, and, if he permits, you shall have a training that will fit you for something better than any one of this secret-whispering pack will ever come to. I will make a soldier of you, McDonell, which is the best use God ever made of man, and the best use you can make of yourself for your King. But come, I am going to the Palace myself, only you must go through the Piazza and not by any back door, like a lackey or a priest."

The entrée had just been removed when Arthur became aware of a curious hush that had fallen upon

Socialist activities, it is manifest that competitive individualism destroys itself. This was reasoned out long ago in the Capital of Marx; it is receiving its first gigantic practical demonstration in the United States of America. Whatever happens, we believe that competitive industrialism will change and end—and we Socialists at least believe that the alternative to some form of Socialism is tyranny and social ruin. So, too, in the social sphere, whether Socialists succeed altogether or fail altogether, or in whatever measure they succeed or fail, it does not alter the fact that the family is weakening, dwindling, breaking up, disintegrating. The alternative to a planned and organized Socialism is not the maintenance of the present system, but its logical development, and that is all too plainly a growing complication of pretences as the old imperatives weaken and fade. We already live in a world of stupendous hypocrisies, a world wherein rakes and rascals champion the sacred institution of the family, and a network of sexual secrets, vaguely


"My third—"



It seemed to me that Poirot’s style was unnecessarily facetious. I also fancied he was a shade jealous of my position on the spot with full facilities for handling the case. His request for a description of the clothes worn by the two women appeared to me to be simply ridiculous, but I complied as well as I, a mere man, was able to.

“Surely” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in the Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”

"And no one will ever know who she was, or what really happened," said the boy, drawing a long breath. "Unless, perhaps, when she is dying it may all come back to her?"

Pioneers in the West were likely at any time to encounter wild animals or to be forced to battle with plundering or revenge-seeking Indians. Whether traveling overland trails or upon navigable streams, the

Mr. Wolley’s masheen broak down aboot a fortnite ago, and the auld gintleman is like a child widout his favrite toy. He do be wayting ivery day for the new carbureater to arrive, and manewile he spinds all his time fooling aboot wid the masheen that isn’t rooning anny longer. Mrs. Wolley has dridful narviss hidakes, injooced so she told me in confydunse as mooch by her wurry over Miss Claire as frum anny uther cause.

Part of it will go to a class of farmers that correspond to what are known in the South as "cash renters." These men will have some stock, and, perhaps, a little house and garden. In a good season they will be able to make enough to live upon and, perhaps, save a little money. If the small farmer is so unfortunate, however, as to have a bad season; if he loses some of his cattle or is compelled to borrow money or seed, the middleman who advances him is pretty certain to "clean him up," as our farmers say, at the end of the season. In that case, he falls into the larger and more unfortunate class beneath him, which corresponds to what we call in the Southern States the "share cropper." This man, corresponding to the share cropper, is supposed to work his portion of land on half-shares, but if, as frequently happens, he has been compelled to apply to the landlord during the season for a loan, it goes hard with him on the day of settlement. For example, this is the way, according to a description that I received, the crop is divided between the landlord and his tenants: After the wheat has been cut and thrashed—thrashed not with a machine, nor yet perhaps with flails, but with oxen treading the sheaves on a dirt floor—the



“Oh, Bud, I’ll never forgit that homecomin’ when she met me at the gate an’ kissed me an’ laughed a little an’ cried a heap, an’ we walked in the little parlor an’ the preacher made us one.


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