"Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. 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. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ’ ‘So I see. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your trouble.
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