I scarcely recognized the delicate child of old. “And does she keep up her devotion to you?”
“She does.” He gave me a decidedly amused glance; carefully replaced next the photograph two or three pressed white field daisies that had fallen out, and put it back in his pocket.
“And what is to become of her?” I went on curiously.
He looked about his handsome, but solitary drawing room. “I am going to England in the spring, to get her,” he said with a laugh. “I have tried living without her, and I can endure it no longer.”
The End.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.