"What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some independent notions of its own. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. " "Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source.
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