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Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. ‘Now then, Gerald, out with it. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. She turned to face him and he kissed her.
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