He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “She told you that?” “Yes.
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