In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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