F. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. But, be like a son to her. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it.
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