She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. ‘Damnation! Too late. ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. Death belongs to God, young man. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.
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