Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. . ’ ‘Ah, that was well done of him,’ exclaimed Melusine. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will.
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