A fever of shame ran through her being. " "But, Mr. " "How so?" asked the other, distrustfully. He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. You will be with me. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived.
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