Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. His eyes closed. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. Vorsack sauntered into the room, sporting her usual toothy thin254 lipped grin. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. It is just how things happen to be. " "I see through your design, Jack," returned the carpenter, gravely; "but I don't like under-hand work.
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