" "The deuce he has!" cried Dump. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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