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"What's all this?" exclaimed Wood in amazement. Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. ‘Gone!’ he said. I don't think. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. But Gerald took it for the routine interest in an eligible bachelor, although he was aware many females had an eye for scarlet regimentals. ‘Courage,’ urged her spouse. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. ’ ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Gerald said grimly.
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