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"Her husband!" cried Susan Fitzgerald protestingly; "why, she hasn't been married six months." Mrs. Leveridge's smile showed more than a tinge of patronage. "If you'd ever been married yourself, Susan, you'd know that six months was enough, quite enough. If he's that kind of a man, six weeks is about as long as he can keep on his good behavior." "He hasn't been beating her, has he?" asked Mrs.
Thayor had repeated Leveridge's words to Alice, and she had replied: "Well, if you are fool enough to believe in Leveridge I wash my hands of the whole affair." Margaret, as Thayor had expected, was radiantly happy over the idea of the camp. She and her father talked of nothing else, Margaret taking an absorbed interest in every detail concerning the new home.
Leveridge's sigh was provocative of further questions. "Well, no, and then again, yes. It isn't anything like a death in the family. But you don't have to live long to find out that death ain't the worst thing." "My goodness, Minerva," exclaimed Susan Fitzgerald, aghast. "What's happened?" Mrs. Leveridge's deliberative gaze swept the silently expectant company.
In fact, I see more plainly every day, there is not a trait of the Leveridge's about you, deeply as I deplore it. I had hoped to have a daughter after my own heart. I sometimes think you do not wish to please me in anything." "Oh!" cried Clemence, "how greatly you misunderstand me. You do not know how much I love you.
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