But he wrote on. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. "What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. Things haven't gone quite as smoothly as I anticipated; but they might have been worse. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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