" "I'v not failed," returned Jack, angrily; "but we've done too much. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. ” Annabel rose to her feet. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. But for perfect satisfaction, he must take a peek into the bedroom.
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