Ennison’s manner was certainly not one of a willing host. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. "'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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