It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. "Not that I know of," replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands.
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