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. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. But I'll call a doctor, since you order it. Her lips parted, but no words came. You know you do, Annabel.
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