F. ” “It is,” Annabel answered shortly. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. The Widow and her Child. After all, that was life. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. Later on—well then the time may come. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. I know all about it. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first.
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