"Help!—murder!—thieves!" screamed Mrs. Go for it. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Your servant, Mr. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis.
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