"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. Charcoal. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. Neither of them joined in the applause which followed upon her exit. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. . Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations. .
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