Page:Tom Beauling (1901).pdf/169

 would burn for you with a pure light—small, like that of a candle—and occupy your heart It is so fearless and optimistic and healthy: not good work—far from it—but brave work. He knew that the game was played out, and that he had lost. Did he turn his back, so that he should not see his colors finish last? Oh, no. He marked them all the way round in the tail of the procession,—the fainting jockey, the gasping horse,—and when the race was done, he turned to those who held him in great worship and smiled a gallant smile. One person alone could have saved the book—the minx Lettice. Had she loved Jack, her listening would have made his songs beautiful. But she didn't She loved him rather less than the third finger of her left hand, over which somebody had slipped a man's seal-ring made small. As a matter of fact, the rascal considered herself engaged—she was only fifteen, mind you—to the son of a belted earl. At sixteen she actually married him, and—they led each other dances. But by that time Jack