A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. "Halloa!" exclaimed Austin, who had caught a glimpse of her departing figure, "one of the women is gone!" "No—no," hastily interposed Mrs. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. “Please come by.
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