Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. "Well, like or not, I'm greatly pleased with it, and must beg it from you as a memorial——" "Of what?" she interrupted, startled by his change of manner. “I should love to come. ” The stranger came over to them smiling. And nowhere could I obtain the slightest information.
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