There was a third lady among the younger set. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal.
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