’ Her features broke apart in a laugh. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. I know he is dead. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. ” He asked questions and listened to her views for a time. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon the practical side of life. "A mother's prayers—a mother's blessings," she cried, with the fervour almost of inspiration, "will avail against a fiend's malice. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. .
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