’ ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. Sheppard, faintly. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. "These writer chaps are queer birds. ' We must not omit to mention that a family group from the pencil of little Winifred, representing Mr. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. "Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. How provoking!" she added, pretending to rummage her pockets; "one never can find a thing when one wants it. .
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