” “I wish,” said Ann Veronica, with sudden anger, “that you could know what it is to live in a pit!” She stood up as she spoke, and put down her cup beside Miss Garvice’s. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. She turned quickly. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical.
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