“You are late,” she murmured. ’ The woman shrugged helpless shoulders, looking to her husband. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. ” “You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. . And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Then he stood up and repeated it again. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. Something changed for her. "Thames, this is no forgery. . "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. .
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