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. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. I didn’t understand before that letter. "Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o' the common. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. .
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