"No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business. ” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. Her sister’s words were true. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her.
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