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" "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. " He laughed and pushed back his chair. ’ ‘As if you could stop her. ’ She paused, struggling for the word. She expanded that. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. At this gate two paths meet. A cold shiver ran through her frame, and her gentle spirit passed away for ever. I should have known at a glance if it was. \" Lucy replied sardonically. She met him by the dugout after the game. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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