If nothing else had clinched that, the purse had. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. That’s how it takes me. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze.
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