In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. " "Devilish hard! I'm not allowed a chance," grumbled Austin, as he was left alone.
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