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The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. 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. The two aunts of these young ladies lived for many years in the dower house upon my estate in Hampshire. Nothing ensued. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too.
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