Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. One day it was gone. \" Lucy winced. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. But he tells them that I am a spy. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. Burn your palette and your easel. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen.
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