It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. I just thought perhaps a different boy was in store for you. " "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath.
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