"My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Its cavernous expanses equaled the upstairs of the house. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. “I wonder why people in love are so defiant, so careless of other considerations?” “The very hares grow brave. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous.
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