Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. " "Do not distress him, dear father," said Winifred; "he suffers deeply. He hanged your first husband.
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