' Why," said Ruth, "you did not read that to us. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. He kissed her deeply and hungrily. "What for?" demanded Wood. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ” “Why?” “If I were bad at it, you would be on your way to the hospital by now. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all.
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