"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. " "And why not, old saltwater?" inquired Ben, turning a quid in his mouth. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. That’s my advice to you. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood.
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