Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. ” She looked around the apartment again. "Oh, Heavens!" cried Mrs. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object. Howard Spurlock. .
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