"Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. But her heart kept on sinking. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. “But you must forgive me, John. Have you ever tried to run and jump in petticoats, Mr. ‘Allow me. Before very long I hope to have definite work. ” “Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?” “Easily. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. "That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. " "Hold your tongue!" cried Mrs. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. “You need a reason.
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