Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself. She wants to be free—she wants to be legally and economically free, so as not to be subject to the wrong man; but only God, who made the world, can alter things to prevent her being slave to the right one. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five.
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