"Ah!" cried Wild, laying down his pen and looking up with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Very well, never mind. Somehow logic could not explain her. ” He intoned. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song.
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