She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. To be ill and helpless. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. . The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. She was shocked. “I’m not gentle.
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