She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. ” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. ” Sydney Courtlaw followed his timid knock. I was to blame to carry the matter so far.
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