Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. "No, I won't leave go!" screamed Mrs. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case.
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