Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. Parbleu, but she was a fool. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. Mother and Son. Good-bye aunt.
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