“Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. 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. She is more dear to me than anything else. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. “Our ways happened to lie together. “You poor little girl!” he cried. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
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