She saw how overworked he was. Mischief bubbled up in her. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. "Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. Ramage?” he asked. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it. .
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