for the dirt he wiped up on his clothing as he rolled and kicked about.
The room seemed to sway and tip as the ship had done, and there was a continuous sound as of thunder, a strange undercurrent that seemed to her strained nerves like the moaning of the lost souls of all the ages, who had lived and toiled and smothered in this monstrous and terrible city.
Ah, she must get out of it. She must hurry—hurry and find David. He would be glad to see his little son. He would take him in his arms. He would hold them both to his heart. She would see him smile again and look in his eyes, and all this foreboding would cease, and the woful sounds die out of the air and become only the natural roar of the activities and traffic of a great city. She must get used to all this, and not expect to find all the world like her own sunny mountains.
The bishop's careful little wife had tried to explain to her how to meet her new experiences. She was to go nowhere alone, without taking a cab, and never start out on foot, carrying her baby in her arms, as she might do at home. She had given her written instructions how to conduct herself under all ordinary circumstances, at her hotel or on the street—how to ring for a servant, order her meals, or call a cab.
Now, standing before her mirror, Cassandra essayed to arrange her hair as she had seen other young women wear theirs, but she thought the new way looked untidy, and she took it all down and rearranged it as she was used to wear it. David would not mind if she did not do her hair as others did, he would be so