I am yours for the making over. '" "No, we can't stand that," hiccupped Smith, scarcely able to keep his legs. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. "What is it you want of me?" "All you know about this young fellow Spurlock. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up.
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