"First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. You heard her. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts.
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