She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. The poor child! What frightful things she must have seen on that island of hers! The noise of crashing glass caused a diversion; and Ruth turned gratefully toward the sound. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established. The commissionaire smiled.
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