"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. I can’t love you. . . "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club.
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