The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. She felt a storm of emotion surging up within her. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. Balked, Melusine halted. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII.
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