Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Smith: "ho! ho!" "How condescending!" thought Mrs. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. " "Why, what'll you do?" demanded the turnkey. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. That’s the wonder of it.
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