The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Very doubtful. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. Lucy sat beside him. She was no longer there. She was the actress his whim had chosen to play a passive part. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. If your wife can coach you a bit in native lingo, it will help all round. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. They were sitting alone, Lucy. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. That is what I don't understand.
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