"Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. You know you don’t mean it. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. .
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