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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. And there's your liver. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face.
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