“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave.”
“Ah,” said Jack, as he turned to Hugh, “there is indeed a patriotism peculiar to itself in the great Southwest. I have marveled at your love for the frontier, but why should I, when the very air is redolent with the songs of school children immortalizing the great emancipator, John Brown? I am beginning to have a profound respect for the Sunflower State myself.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, “it is the birthplace and home of Ethel Horton.”
“Ah!” said Jack, looking up quickly, “what magic there is in that name. The good right arm of the breadwinner is strengthened more, my dear Hugh, by an unexpected caress or an encouraging word from loved ones than by all the roast beef in Christendom.”
CHAPTER XXX.—THE QUARREL
MRS. HORTON was tireless in her devotion to Ethel. “The poor child,” said she to Mrs. Osborn, “needs a change—salt breeze and good old English air again, and then the color will come back to her cheeks.”
“How charming it will be,” replied Mrs. Osborn, “to see jolly old England once more.” She was a little nervous as she spoke, and seemed ill at ease.