One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. " Miserably his thoughts shuttled to and fro in search of what he knew she wanted —a love story. And he liked her. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. .
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