" "My dear," observed Wood, "you should be more charitable—" "Charitable!" repeated his wife, "that's your constant cry. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. " That was true, thought Spurlock. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. But he was not a father one could make much of. ’ ‘As far as I know it, ma’am.
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