Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. For that such a man does not mind about the dowry, he must be in love en désespoir. 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. No, I thank you. . Easy enough. And yet she knew it was not fair to call her a foolish girl.
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