The young man had knocked over the siphon. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. ’ A sudden clatter of booted feet sounded in the hall beyond. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. He pushed her small hand into his jeans. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known.
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