The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. It slipped out—as did that “she”. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. . ’ ‘Miss?’ gaped the soldier. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. A lawyer has come all the way from America about it. You’d think with as much dick as she gets that she’d cheer up. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression.
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