The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. It must be somewhere hereabouts. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. Promise me one thing before I leave you. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. “It was best for me to know.
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