And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. No offence, I hope. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. He unhooked it from the front clasp. The work of plunder over, that of destruction commenced. “I meant to say good-bye to you to-night. Then Mr. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. Your disobedience be upon your own head.
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