“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. gutenberg. I was to blame to carry the matter so far. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. He next searched for his stockings and shoes, and when found, put them on. She still kicked herself for it. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "My father!" she whispered.
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