Reader, we
shall not open it!
Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of
the lake and yelled with delight--usually terminating each paroxysm
with the Indian war-whoop, with which he was well acquainted. Then he
danced, and then he sat down on a rock, and became suddenly aware that
there were other hearts there, close beside him, as glad as his own.
Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost
son.
Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner
that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection.
Talk of holding converse! Every hair on Crusoe's body, every motion
of his limbs, was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his
mother's mild eyes as if he would read her inmost soul (supposing that
she had one). He turned his head to every possible angle, and cocked
his ears to every conceivable elevation, and rubbed his nose against
Fan's, and barked softly, in every imaginable degree of modulation,
and varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the
rocks of the beach, and in among the bushes and out again, but always
circling round and round Fan, and keeping her in view!
It was a sight worth seeing, and young Marston sat down on a rock,
deliberately and enthusiastically, to gloat over it.
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