A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. The action did not pass unnoticed by Sheppard. .
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