“I knew you would feel it,” said Miss Miniver, as they came away flushed and heated. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. I wonder. 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. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. Strike the gag, Blueskin.
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