She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. It’s not far from twilight. I think that I will tell you. . "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. F. You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. Her tone should have warned him, but he was too much in earnest to regard it.
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