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. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. "We've no time for any Bedlam scenes now. "As sure as one reasonably can be. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little.
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