"He will be murdered!—Help!" "My child!—my love!" cried Wood, dragging her forcibly back. " "I can answer that," replied Thames. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. The evenings were dulcet and soft.
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