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. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. “Is it your maid?” he asked. He did not even care for his own inheritance at this place in Wodeham Water. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions.
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