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Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. " "But I'm a poor man. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. “I am sorry. ‘I doubt very much whether they are yours at all.
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