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. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. A good deal of the food will be in tins. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. So he liked to go by a different train.
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