"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. It was difficult to get right. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. “You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. ” “But how did you tell him? You’ve never told me. Mind, I am anticipating events. "Oh!" she gasped. ‘Eh bien, does that mean that you will do it again?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Gerald uttered, alarmed.
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