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"Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. "It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on the beam. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. ‘Hadn’t meant you to know,’ said the nun gruffly. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. As this had been Mrs.
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