Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Once more cheered by daylight, he hastened forward, and entered the chapel. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. ” “It is within yours—if anybody’s,” he answered. One who steals.
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