‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. “Want to see the upstairs?” “Sure. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly.
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