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Maxwell, W. B., 1866-1938

"The Devil's Garden"

For a long
while now it has been my endeavor to sink what was once described to
me as my pers'nal equation. I don't think of myself at all, if I can
help it; and the consequence is the shyness gets pushed into the
background, my manner becomes more free and open, and people begin to
treat me in a more friendly spirit."
And he wound up his discourse by returning to the original cause of
satisfaction.
"Yes, I do think there are some now that like me for myself--not many,
but just one or two, besides dear old Mr. Bates."
"Everybody does. Why, look at that child, Norah. Only been here a
month, and worships the ground you tread on."
"Poor little mite. That's her notion of being grateful for what I did
for her father. Does she eat just the same?"
"Ravenous."
"Don't stint her," said Dale, impressively. "Feed her _ad lib_. Give
her all she'll swallow. It's the leeway she's got to make up;" and he
turned his eyes toward the kitchen door. "Is she out there?"
"Yes."
"I spoke loud. You don't think she heard what I said?"
"Oh, no. She's busy with Mrs. Goudie."
"I wouldn't like for her to hear us discussing her victuals as though
she was an animal."
"You might have thought she was verily an animal," said Mavis, "if
you'd seen her at the first meals we set before her.


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