To-night we leave for Marseilles. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. His last actions were futile. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. She was certain he would hear, sleeping in the nearby castle. .
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