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. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect. She had one idea, she found, very clear in her mind—that she would get a Research Scholarship, and so contrive another year in the laboratory. " There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble groans. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. “I am off to-night,” he said. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets.
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