She could not help but swoon a little. 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. " "You'd better hold your peace, my lad," observed Jonathan, in a menacing tone. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. I'm sure she'll let me go, though. ***** Spurlock possessed that extraordinary condition of the mind which is called New England conscience.
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