“I wrote it for you. " Not many days after this event, on a bright October morning, the bells rang a merry peal from the old gray tower of Willesden church. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She was the social leader of Morningside Park, and in her superficial and euphuistic way an extremely kind and pleasant woman. 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. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. Little by little, she stopped hating him. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. “It isn’t fair. Before the congregation separated, the clergyman descended from the pulpit; and, followed by the coffin-bearers and mourners, and by Jack at a respectful distance, entered the churchyard.
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