It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It still failed in something. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She caught at the idea. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours.
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