I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. After the twins were past the toddling age, Clotilde finally caught on when the children cleaved to Lucia’s breast when it was time to leave for a fortnight abroad. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active. Spurling, (for she it was,) either by her attractions of purse or person, had succeeded in moving the stony heart of Mr. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. ‘I believe that.
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