ney;
he would find himself waiting and watching; but as the weeks and
months went by, and he heard not her step nor her voice, then would
come the real anguish. They tell us that these wounds heal; well,
maybe; but they open and reopen and open again till that day we
ourselves cease to take interest in worldly affairs.

He stooped and picked up one of the roses which she had held in her
hand. Reverently he pressed his lips to it and put it away in his
wallet. Then he turned and went slowly down the hill. He had never
really known her till these last few months; not till now did he
realize how closely knit together had been their lives and affections.
He lighted a cigar, and with his hands behind his back and his chin in
his collar, he continued to the gates. The old care-taker opened and
closed the gates phlegmatically. Day by day they came, and one by one
they never went out again. To him there was neither joy nor grief; if
the grass grew thick and the trees leaved abundantly, that was all he
desired.

It was a long walk to Williams Street, and he was tired when he
entered the house. Jove leaped upon him gladly. Warrington held the
dog's head in his hands and gazed into the brown eyes. Here was one
that loved him, wholly and without question. You will always find some
good in the man who retains the affection of his dog. In good times or
bad, they are stanch friends; and they are without self-interest,
which is more than human. In the living-room he found the Angora
curled up on a sofa-cushion. He smoothed her, and she stretched her
lithe body luxuriously and yawned. There is no other animal which so
completely interprets the word indifference. Warrington wondered what
he should do with her, for he was not very fond of cats. But his aunt
had loved her, so he passed on to the dining-room without deciding
what to do.

It was a lonely supper. He kept his eyes on his plate as well as he
could; for whenever he saw the back of her chair, his food choked him.
He wondered why he did not take the decanter of whisky down from the
sideboard; a generous tumblerful. ... No. This was the first time in
months that the desire to drink deeply came to him. No; he would leave
it there. Supper done, he went to his den and took down a book. Could
he live here now? He doubted it, for it was a house of empty doors. He
settled himself in a chair and turned the pages of the book to a place
he loved well. It was where D'Artagnan, representi