Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. “Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean,” he remarked. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Don't be frightened of her. Shortly a man descended laboriously. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money.
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