It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "What do you want fot that coat, friend?" asked Jack, as he came up. "Darrell's job was done early this morning," he said; "and if I'd attended to his advice, the packing-case would have been finished at the same time. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. I am. “Is this Montague Street, W. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. Her tone was icy.
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