For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. “Never mind. "I've counted ten coffins so far. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. But I'll not believe it of you. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. "Lend a hand with the ruffles, Blueskin!" he shouted, as that personage, who had just recovered from the stunning effects of the blow, contrived to pick himself up. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love.
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