Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity. “But I’ve heard that he’s broken up with her three times in the past. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman.
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