It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. There it is. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble. I freely forgive you. "Mine died while I was over here. ” Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. “I do mean that,” she declared. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. It was for ever.
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