Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Presently he became filled with astonishment over the singular fact that Ruth was eluding him in fancy as well as in reality. She was amazed that at over sixhundred years old that she could miss her parents so bitterly.
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