"
"Now, now!" cried Mr. Ingelow, appealing to the four walls in
desperation. "Did ever mortal man hear the like of this?
Captivity--death! My good woman--my dear lady--can't you draw it a
little milder? Is not this New York City? And are we not in the year of
grace eighteen hundred and ninety? Pray, don't go back to the Dark Ages,
when lovers went clad in clanking suits of mail, and forcibly carried
off brides from the altar, under the priest's very nose, _? la_ Young
Lochinvar. Do be reasonable, there's a good soul!"
Miriam turned her back upon him in superb disdain.
"And this is the man Mollie preferred! This is the man I thought would
help me! Mr. Hugh Ingelow, I wish you good-evening."
"No, no." exclaimed Mr. Ingelow, starting up. "Not yet! Open the
mysteries a little before you depart. I'm willing and ready to aid you
to the best of my ability. Tell me what I'm to do, and I'll do it."
"I have nothing to tell," Miriam said, steadfastly. "I will not put you
to the trouble of helping me."
"But you must!" cried the artist, suddenly transforming himself into a
new man.
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