238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. Eggs were procured for her, and she sat out the subsequent emotions and eloquence with the dignity becoming an injured lady of good family. A woman cannot change her soul. If Emile can see him, then so also can I.
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