She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. “I have come to tell you this. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. ” Mr. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. "Another time," replied the thief-taker, evasively. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it. They then swiftly mounted the stairs, and stopped before the audience-chamber. \" \"If only it worked that way! Oh, it’s just not fair.
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