She held out her arms to him and smiled. 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. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. And when, at length, it was struck, he wanted energy to pursue his advantages. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind.
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