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"Ain't you Major Harper's quartermaster-sergeant?" he asked.

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

The young ladies were in rapture. Miss Harper asked how he had done it.

I found but one white figure under the dim veranda eaves. "Miss Camille?"

I mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

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