She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. . "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. ” “Sure, anything you want. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor. She even had books by H. “It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over.
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