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13th of October 189—. Mrs Newman stood in her garden at Dulham vicarage, tending a rich bed of late geraniums, upon which the autumn sun shed its softened glow from a clear, deep, blue sky. The leaves of the high-road elms outside the gate, under which, at the outset of our story, Lesbia had essayed her first bicycle mount, had begun to redden, and many already strewed the gravel walks; yet the breeze was a soft zephyr, and there was nothing in the air or in the scene suggestive of melancholy. Fidgfumblasquidiot was exercising Gossamer, who had come home with the rest of the party from London while his young mistress went to Cornwall. The bulldog took greatly to the half-wit, and she was not at all afraid of him, not even when, as she patted his head, he reared with his muddy paws against her white apron, which made her say ‘Oh!’ and look about her for ghosts.

But it was Lesbia’s birthday, and she was not there; perhaps that was the reason why her mother, as she moved round the gay flowers, felt exceedingly depressed and anxious. There was no ostensible cause for this; she had heard from her daughter a day or two before, and by that account she was well and enjoying her seaside visit. What more could Mrs Newman desire; and yet she was apprehensive, she knew not why. Her brother the vicar had tried to talk her