"You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. The only safe place for him is at sea; and if he had kept to the sea, I shouldn't have found him so easily. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. .
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