” She said mournfully. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Too much, perhaps. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Wiped out, but for these. "The part was crooked," she explained. "He will pull through?" "Positively. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. " "Ha! hussy, dare you threaten?" cried Wild; but, checking himself, he turned to Ireton and asked, "How long have the women been gone?" "Scarcely five minutes," replied the latter. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. But we must not anticipate the course of events.
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