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***** From the comatose state, Spurlock passed into that of the babbling fever; but that guarding instinct which is called subconsciousness held a stout leash on his secret. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. ” His shoulders relaxed. For freedom at least. ” For a moment or two he did not speak. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool.
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