The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. "My child!" he groaned faintly. Yet there was nothing for her to do. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. No— no, it must never be. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances.
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