Could she understand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-class carriage and the ordinary fellowtravellers were not there. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. “Oh, it is okay. Told you how it would be. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls.
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