To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Very well. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. “I promise, Lucy. I wanted to have something to give up. . . You know I call that positively wicked. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees.
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