" "Come along, master," said the waterman. "A sail?" said McClintock. ‘Very well, never mind. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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