My nerves were in rags. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. Never mind. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads.
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