Meysey Hill—never your wife. “You have been very kind to me,” she said. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. 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. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter.
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