Annabel entered. “I want my life to be beaten gold just in order to make it a fitting setting for yours. “A number of beautiful things are not intense. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. I’m sorry.
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