The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. " "Indeed!" rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; "perhaps, you will refresh my memory as to the time, and place. The day is already half over. " "So did I," said Winifred. All in a moment. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks.
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