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The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. "'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. He gripped the window-sill behind him. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again.
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