" The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. There are certain smells, certain tinges to the air. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. " "Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. You can pay me when we return. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy.
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