" "You mustn't think of that, Mrs. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Too late now. Once more breaking through the hedge he took to the fields. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check.
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