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 that remark with the faintest sensation of patience.

It is only fair to admit that it was Galvin who oiled the wheels which ran thus smoothly, though I was far from suspecting to what an extent my comfort was dependent upon her exertions until I was abruptly deprived of her services — fortunately, for a few hours only. The occasion was the marriage of a cousin of hers in town, and I readily granted the request for a brief leave of absence which she made with some show of hesitation.

“It’s only for the day,” she said, “but, then, there’s your luncheon, Mr. Sands.”

I remembered with a smile the meals I had prepared at the age of thirteen, in a cave of my own finding, over the rudest of fires, and with sticks and flat stones for my only utensils, instead of forks and pans. Never, I think, were catfish more palatably fried, never were sweet potatoes baked to such a turn. I reflected that it would be surprising indeed, if