Here we are absconding, pretending to be what we are not; shady, to say the least of it. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “I believe after all it’s coming out!” said Miss Stanley. 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. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart.
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