When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic idea that it contained a tip. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. “Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?” “No. " "I've just bethought me of a crib as'll serve their turn," interposed Sharples, "at any rate, they'll be out o' the vay, and as safe as two chicks in a coop. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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