Since she was only seventeen when she had them, she didn’t deal with it very well. "There!" cried Mrs. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while.
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