Softly she rose to her feet. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. The child was still safe. Ennison, or any other young man. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. I shall count it a privilege. I hardly see you anymore. To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change.
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