She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She was only a few yards from the door, but lacked the courage to rise and fly. “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. ” They clambered down the hill together.
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