"Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Offer to return it to each in private. Arrived at his habitation, Jonathan knocked in a peculiar manner at the door, which was instantly opened by the grim-visaged porter just alluded to. Never mind. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone.
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