Spurlock mused over the previous night. Carefully sustaining the child which, even in that terrible extremity, he had not the heart to abandon, he fell upon his knees, and, guiding himself with his right hand, crept slowly on. Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “Annabel?” he exclaimed.
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