” An immense gulf seemed to open between father and daughter as he said these words. It was easy for him to see that she desired to be agreeable to him. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. But I shan't let him off thus.
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