To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr. 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. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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