"Sh!" whispered Madame Rousseau, putting a finger to her lips which in the light of the sun were singularly red and unstarved. "Sh!" echoed her husband. "Sh!" said Rouquin. On tip-toe they all advanced upon the heap, now resolved into a pile of pink blankets. Mr. Bingle leaned far over the heap. Then he put on his spectacles. "Where is it?" he whispered.

But Adam reckoned without his Eve. These things represented to him the applied power of wealth, but there slumbered in his dingy cabin an ambition that soared far above his primitive wants. Somewhere in Mrs. Garvey's bosom still survived a spot of femininity unstarved by twenty years of Blackjack.