. " "Ay—ay," laughed Jonathan. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. “No, I’m fine. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds. “Nigel, don’t you understand. “Dear John,” she whispered. .
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