" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. She felt terrible lying to him. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table.
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