Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. They happen to a man.
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