Ye would think that our chief aim was the cuspidor.
Showers of expectoration and thunder claps o' profanity and braggart gales o' Yankee dialect!--that's the moral weather report that she sends back to England.

We have faults enough, God knows, but we have something else away beneath them an' none o' these writers has discovered it." The sealed envelope which Mr.Wright had left at our home, a long time before that day, was in my pocket.

At last the hour had come when.

I could open it and read the message of which I had thought much and with a growing interest.
I rose and said that I should like to go to my room.

Mr.Hacket lighted a candle and took me up-stairs to a little room where my chest had been deposited.