Let us pass, Sir. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. And, if I'd my own way with the Secretary of State, he never should.
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