As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. . ’ The girl bit her lip and backed a little, while her husband shifted to stand at her side. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. The Return.
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