Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. "You mistake,—you are mine. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica. What was the matter with Spurlock that was to keep him in bed three or four weeks? He would dig that out of the hotel manager. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us.
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