"What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. “I’ve been playing since I was five, Lucy! You’re just more talented than I am. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. Nothing else matters. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. CHAPTER XXIII.
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