In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. "If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer," he continued passionately, "you would not refuse me one. But one day he came to me.
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