The boots she wore with the Milly dress on Inauguration Day, for example, belonged to her daughter-in-law, Hallie.
"That note was the most impertinent thing I ever read," Hallie was saying.
There were friends in that house, her friends Mrs. McAlpin and little Hallie.
Hallie tore up the envelope she had already addressed, and added a few lines to her letter, tearfully bidding—bless her heart!
Then, and only then, did Hallie cease her sobbing to sit staring round-eyed at the fire.
Wherever she may have come from, Hallie had grown to be the life of that old brown cabin.
He had just been told that little Hallie had returned home, “might nigh killed.”
Oh, we're careful, Hallie; we're careful; but I tell 'em not to be too careful!
Had old Job and his followers discovered that little Hallie had been stolen?
In the library Hallie was kissing her father good-by, and then offered her hand to Barrows.