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If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. Listen, you. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. "What's the matter?" demanded Jonathan, harshly.
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