on the forehead, that kind of play ceased, and the boy was
compelled to try some other make believe than that of the tragedy on the
wintry night many years before.

Billy Peterkin has never married, and never will. His heart-wound was
too deep to heal without a scar to tell where it had been; but he and
Jerrie are the best of friends, and he is very fond of her children.

Tom is still abroad, waiting for that fit of apoplexy which is to be the
signal for his return; but the probabilities are that he will wait a
long time, for Peterkin, who is himself afraid of apoplexy, has gone
through the Banting process, which has reduced his weight from fifty to
seventy-five pounds, and as he is very careful in his diet Tom may stay
abroad longer than he cares to do, unless Ann Eliza's persuasions bring
him home to his dreaded father-in-law. There was a little girl born to
them in Rome, whom they called Maude, but she only lived a few weeks,
and then they buried her under the daisies in the Protestant burying
ground, where so many English and Americans are lying. Ann Eliza sent a
lock of the little one's hair to her father, who had it framed and hung
in his bedroom, and wore on his hat a band of crape which nearly covered
it.

Dolly still calls the Ridge Cottage her home, but she is not often
there, for a mania for travelling has seized her, and she is always upon
the move, searching for some new place, where she hopes to find rest and
quiet. She still dresses in black, relieved at times with something
white, but she has laid aside crape and sports her diamonds, which she
did not find it necessary to sell, and which attract a great deal of
attention, they are so clear and large. One year she spent in Europe
with Tom and Ann Eliza, the latter of whom she made so uncomfortable
with her constant dictation and assumption of superiority that Tom at
last came to the rescue, and told her either to mind her business and
let his wife alone or go home. As she could not do the former she came
home, and joined a Raymond party to California, but soon separated
herself from it, as the members were not to her taste. Every summer she
goes either to Saratoga or the sea-side or the mountains, and every
winter she drifts southward to Florida, where, at certain hotels, she is
as well known as the oldest _habituee_. We saw her recently at Winter
Park, where, at the Seminole, she has a maid and a suit of rooms, and as
far as possible keeps herself aloo