“I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. You are a girl with very little. ” “I won’t keep you very long, daddy,” said Ann Veronica. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. I’m taking no chances. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. "What's the matter?" he cried. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. " "Look at it, then," said Wild, giving him the portfolio.
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