It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. She were that miserable.
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