Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. Fortunately, ever since Wild's late murderous attack, the household has all been well armed. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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