" "What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously. . . His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. I love some one else. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. She stared. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs.
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