” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. He was an imaginative young man. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. After great exertions on both parts, the spike yielded to their combined strength, and snapped suddenly off. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room.
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