And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. Having worked thus for another quarter of an hour without being sensible of fatigue, though he was half stifled by the clouds of dust which his exertions raised, he had made a hole about three feet wide, and six high, and uncovered the iron bar.
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