The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Lucy sat in the back seat as the trio sped through intersections in the old sedan. "I'll be back in a minute. This is not what I want. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home.
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