. 1. ” Mrs. Wood fancied he recognised. Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. . Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand.
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