” He cried traitorously. “I am sick of it. Wood was once a favourite of yours. “No, John, you won’t understand. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. " "It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. Something in her tone made him look up. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "She was mine before you ever saw her. That would not help her.
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