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. Wood turned to look at him. It was she—— Anna’s nerves were not easily shaken, but she found herself suddenly clutching at the table for support. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. “You will not even answer my letters. " So saying, he slung it upon his wrist. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. You should have more. . “It isn’t a joke,” she said. Only au revoir. There! You are trying to take your hand away. She ought to have leapt back on guard.
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