“Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Oh! that Mr. Mrs. Wood, furiously. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. Listen.
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