She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!" cried. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. The delight of the turnkeys was beyond all bounds; but poor Mrs. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.
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