Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. "Well, Sir?" gasped Sir Rowland. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. Keep up the clamour for five minutes, and I'll finish it. We propose to disregard all our ties, all our obligations, all the established prohibitions of society, and begin life together afresh. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. Manning?” she asked. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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