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. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "By the way," said the doctor, as he sat down in the dining room of the Victoria and ordered tea, "I've been thinking it over. " "Compromised.
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