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There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. “Excuse me a moment. There's our young friend upstairs. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone.
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