" "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. ’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. . ’ A giggle answered him. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. ” She pressed her ear to the door. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish.
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