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"Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. His name was Peter. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently.
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