She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. " The Wastrel rushed. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. The by now familiar dramatic sigh came. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. ” Lucy relied. “Not too bad. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. You know you don’t mean it. ‘She knows what she’s up against.
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