"Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo. Wonderful! The water, dripping from you, must have looked like pearls. ” “Certainly,” Mrs.
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