Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. Sheppard," said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; "what brings you to town, eh?— Nothing amiss, I trust?" "Nothing whatever, Sir," answered the widow. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband.
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