"I was sorry when I heard you were coming," she said, irrelevantly,
"but I'm glad now."
Mr. Woods--I grieve to relate--was still holding her hand in his.
There stirred in his pulses the thrill Kathleen Eppes had always
wakened--a thrill of memory now, a mere wraith of emotion. He was
thinking of a certain pink-cheeked girl with crinkly black-brown
hair and eyes that he had likened to chrysoberyls--and he wondered
whimsically what had become of her. This was not she. This was
assuredly not Kathleen, for this woman had a large mouth--a humorous
and kindly mouth it was true, but undeniably a large one--whereas,