They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. It wasn’t. I’m afraid I’m a terribly clumsy fellow. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “I’ve gotta go. .
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