She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. “How are you feeling?” She asked. I have had no one but for you. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. "Would you expose yourself to fresh risk? If it hadn't been for her you wouldn't have been placed in your late jeopardy. ” He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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